When I'm annoyed or mad, I write death fics.
When you are small, life seems to take forever to pick up. You have no sense of time, nothing like that. Then you realize the older you get, the faster your life seems to speed by. It's natural for everyone to feel that way. You might start to wonder what the point of everything is, why you are where you are.
I liked playing with toys. Ever since I was little, up until I was a teenager, the thing I remember most was sitting down on my floor, crossing my legs, and playing with my toy trains. I liked building things too. I wasn't very good at it, but I enjoyed stacking blocks on top of one another, trying at least to make a presentable building. The toy trains would go through the walls I had built. This was my city, in the middle of my floor. My world.
I miss playing like a little kid. When I got older, my daddy told me toys were for babies and they were taken from me. Instead, I was given books, things to make me smarter.
I preferred the toys.
I didn't dislike studying so much as I hated the amount I was forced to study. Daddy would come in to test me, to make sure I had learned everything he told me to. He was difficult to study with. Daddy always intimidated me, but it was something that had to be done. And like being forced into the fact I was a growing boy who didn't play with toys anymore, I soon learned to love reading, to love learning something new every day. I liked knowing things; I liked thinking I was smart.
I don't remember a lot of my teenaged years. I remember toys and studying. It feels like when I turned fourteen, my mind went blank, like I was on autopilot most of the time. Sometimes Daddy would come into my room while I was studying, and I would feel fingers in my hair. When I turned to look up at him, to smile at him, to say, "Hi, Daddy," everything went blank after that. The only thing I remembered next was feeling sad and Daddy would be gone.
My world became a blur. When I would wake up in the mornings to start my day like normal, I felt so hot sometimes, and I didn't want to move. The sad feeling would become overwhelming until I started crying for no reason, never leaving my bed. It felt physically painful sometimes, like someone had kicked me in my stomach.
I liked sleeping. I had nice dreams. Sometimes I would see a woman in my dreams, but I couldn't tell you who she was. She was really nice and beautiful though. Always smiling at me. Sometimes I would dream about Daddy, but they were never nice dreams. Not like the one with the lady in them.
I liked it better when I didn't dream at all, though. Or at least, I liked it when I couldn't remember my dreams. Because if I dreamt of something nice, waking back up felt worse than when I had fallen asleep. The pain in my stomach, it was consuming me until most of the time, I was curled on my bed, biting the blood from my lip to keep from sobbing.
Like always, when Daddy would come in, the feeling got worse. But, I wouldn't remember anything after, not after he began touching me. I would always feel sad once I came back to reality. I wonder why?
One day I couldn't move at all. My body was so hot, but I was freezing at the same time. It was a frustrating combination, and uncomfortable. Once I got under my blanket, I would be so hot, until I wanted all my clothes off, but then I would be freezing again. I couldn't make my body happy no matter what I tried.
Everything was blurry. I didn't want to eat anything anymore. When food was pushed to me, I shoved it back away. I didn't know why. It felt like if I ate anything, I would vomit. I already felt too weak to move anymore, I didn't want to strain my body any more than it felt.
Daddy came into my room one night while I was huddled under my sheets, too hot to wear my clothes, but too cold to come out from under the blanket. He said nothing to me, only placing his hand against my forehead. It was so, so cold, but it felt so good too. He was blurry. Saying nothing, he left. Why wouldn't Daddy ever talk to me? I missed him sometimes. Even though I felt sad afterward, I still longed for company. But, most of my days were spent sleeping anyway. I didn't dream a lot anymore.
I developed a horrible cough the day after. It felt like it took every ounce of energy just to get it out, but I couldn't hold them in. There would be blood on my hands afterward. It was only a little, so I kept tissue by my bed to wipe it off with. I don't know why I wasn't more afraid by the sight of my own blood, but I think I was too tired to really care about anything anymore.
I miss playing with toys. I even miss studying. Moving is such a chore now, my body refuses to obey me, and I have hardly the energy to even cough when I have to. I was hot all the time, then cold. It never stayed one for very long. I didn't want to eat anymore.
Daddy came in the day after I began coughing up blood, and sat down on a spot on the bed next to me. He didn't speak, he never spoke, but I smiled up at him. Daddy was always nice to me. Daddy loved me. I was so tired.
His fingers moved to my hair, and I felt tears fall down, because I felt so horrible. The mixture of hot, cold, fatigue, and the overwhelming sadness was too much. Every time he touched me, I felt sad, but I could never figure out why. It had to be my fault, though. Daddy...
I reached up to grab the hand that was in my hair, but I couldn't even lift my arms. This was such a-hopeless feeling. Being tired all the time, seeing my room as nothing more than a blur anymore. I hated it. All I wanted to do was sleep.
"D-Daddy..." Even my own voice was raspy and exhausted. Would I ever feel normal again? I began to cry when his hand moved down to my face, stroking it. Why was he doing this? Why wouldn't he ever talk to me? It made me sad. "Daddy...where's Momma?"
Momma...I didn't have a Momma. Or maybe I did. I couldn't remember anymore. More tears fell when he didn't speak. Would Momma help me? Please, help me. Help me, I'm so tired, I'm so, so tired, please.
Daddy leaned over and kissed my lips. The horrible feeling in my stomach returned, only making me cry harder. He then kissed my cheeks, my forehead, the top of my head, and finally spoke while he did so. "N, you don't have a mother, remember?"
No. That wasn't-I. I cried, coughing, feeling more blood bubble from my mouth, dripping down my chin. It was thicker this time. I think I was choking on it. I couldn't cough anymore, I couldn't move anymore. "No." More tears. I couldn't see anything anymore. Daddy wasn't there, Momma-maybe Momma had never been there before. I loved her though. I loved Daddy too. I loved them both. Even though Daddy hurt me-no-when I felt sad, I still loved my daddy. Where was Momma?
Everything felt cold now. The bed sheets, Daddy's lips on top of my head, the tears falling down my face. Cold. I think I went to sleep. Because that's the last thing I remembered. Being weak and sick, hot and cold, nothing felt more horrible than that. I still remembered toys. Like how I would make houses for my toy trains. Sometimes I would draw on my homework, but Daddy would get mad when I did. Math was always fascinating to me, it was probably the only subject I enjoyed studying. I still remember that.
I wonder where Daddy went. I don't know. I don't even know if Momma had ever been there. I liked thinking she had. I liked thinking the lady I saw in my dreams might've been her. I knew it wasn't, but it was a nice thought. I wanted to remember Momma. I wanted to remember Daddy.
Now, I don't remember anything anymore.
End