It's a dark and cold January night. I lay wide awake under the covers of my pitch-black room, unable to fall asleep. My mind is constantly attacking me with the scenarios that have kept me awake for years. I don't need to fall asleep to have nightmares, I can produce them with ease very simply.
My terrors are left for me to handle, as I have no one. Not a single soul cares for me. My mother was murdered by my father in front of my eyes when I was just a little kid, scarring me forever with the sounds of her screams. Her enormous, violet eyes fell vacant as she dropped suddenly to the dining room floor. I remember the look in my father's and glassy eyes. He looked of revenge and practically wild. His iris's stung my heart like shards to the skin, leaving a mark on me forever.
My father did not stop there, however. After months of court and trials, he was locked up for only a few years. During the time, I was left in the care of my grandparents. They were wicked people on my father's side. They abused me and locked me in the furnace room for days without proper daily needs. The cold ground pricked my bones with their icy touch. The rats and spiders haunted every crevice of the room. I only found peace in the blade my grandfather attempted to throw at me one night. Somehow, the hot blood took over my brain, causing a sensation of tranquility that I had never experienced. It was then that my habits began, and have never ceased to this day.
I was put back into the care of my father after his release. Being through hell and back at the age of seven is quite a lot to deal with, but my father never seemed to care. He would beat me and abuse me in more ways than one. Every night I would be taken over by insomnia and terrors, progressively getting worse. I would tell myself over and over that a person's life can't be hell forever. Something good has to happen at some point. However, each night this hope seemed more and more improbable. I began to believe that everyone hated me, which was probably true. Someone up there was enjoying themselves killing me from the inside out.
My screams were muffled in the pillows every night. My head burned violently from the horror that I was in. Nothing was alright. Nothing was okay. My knuckles were callused from punching the walls of my bedroom, leaving stains of ruby that faded to crimson. My brain and body were scarred forever. Nobody loved me.
Each and every day was another misery. At school I would be beat unconscious and verbally assaulted. They would yell: "Fag!" "Retard!" "Why don't you just kill yourself?"And I began to ask myself… Why don't I just kill myself? But I knew damn well why I couldn't just kill myself.