Hey. My name is Pierre Hendrickson-Fitts. My boyfriend... Husband. I keep forgetting we got married this weekend. My husband, Roman Fitts-Hendrickson, suggested that I do this, write my story. It's a little hard to do, writing this not in braille. Good thing I took all those computer classes before I lost my sight.
Oh yeah. I forgot to mention. I'm blind.
I also forgot to mention that I know when I'm going to die. Amazing, right? Yeah. That knowledge is what made me tear out my eyes.
...Let me start over.
Hi. I'm Pierre Hendrickson-Fitts. I have a lovely husband named Roman Fitts-Hendrickson, who likes to call me Pierce, as he cant pronounce my very pompous French name correctly. I'm your average gay middle aged asshole with only one or two people to love. I don't have a job because nobody wants to hire a guy who needs to wear cloth over the parts of his face between his forehead and nose in order to hide the scars of traumas past that are around where his eyes should be, but I like to think that being an asshole is a job all on its own.
You want me to explain how I lost my sight? Well, I might as well, but later on in my story. I'm going to go back to the beginning of me, where my story truly starts.
Now I'm not going to date all the way back to the big fucking bang, when atoms just decided to fuck each other in the middle of space by pure chance and caused an explosion of millions more. No. I'm not going to go all the way back there. I don't even know if what I said is correct. I didn't major in science, let alone pass a single one of my science classes.
No. Just no. I'm starting at about twenty years before I was conceived. Yeah that seems good.
So twenty years before I was a lonely egg sitting in a uterus or whatever, my mom was not even an egg in a uterus. She was still in that weird female version of balls, swimming with all the other unfertilized eggs inside my grandma. Three years later, she was the lucky egg to be fertilized with my grandfathers sperm during the beautiful acts of love and life we humans call sex. And there you have it! My mom, who was later named Ameta Guplin, was conceived.
Ameta grew up as an only child, daughter of a priest of a religion we shall dare not name, but dare do discuss. They were more of a cult of sorts. I dont know much about them, but from the couple of stories my mother told on the rare occasions, I can tell you that they were hardcore on hating gays and racists, claiming they "accepted all", but also shunned their Asian followers. Hated most of the United States presidential groups like Democratic, Liberal, Conservative, and half of the Republican lifestyle. They believed Jesus wasnt Gods son, but God himself, and that the only reason why he chose to be born as a human was so he could better understand our weaknesses so he can better control us. The followers of this cultish religion were taught to torture others who came to their doors selling new ideas of religion, to try and convert them into their little house or whatever. They'd beat their members if they stepped even an inch out of line, and that was exactly what happened to my mom.
My mother never agreed with the lifestyle my grandparents led, or the lifestyle that they taught. She wanted to do her own thing. She was miserable there. She did drugs behind everyones backs at the age of thirteen, had sex at fourteen, and, by the time she was turning fifteen, she was pregnant with her first child.
She tried to hide the pregnancy as much as possible, she had told me one day, because it was my grandparents fucked up religious belief that the first child must always be sacrificed in order of Gods will. Something to do with some guy named Abraham or something. He had a son he was supposed to sacrifice or something. I dont know. Never really cared too much about that part. But six months in she was caught. Her father and his fellow cultists locked her in a cellar for the remainder of her pregnancy, and, upon birth, Ameta's first child was killed.
Two months later, after the grievance had passed, Ameta was on the road, running away from home. She was depressed, miserable, and she wanted the world to know about the cult of which she had just escaped from. But the only way she knew how was through poetry, so at the age of sixteen, Ameta was performing written word on stages in the large city of New York, and selling small books of horror filled poems at the door.
Five months later, a god decided to visit Earth. His shift was done in the sky, and it was now night. He wanted to tour the big apple before he flew his chariot once more at the crack of dawn once it reached North America, which has been the gods domain for near a couple thousand years now. He was at a late night restaurant, eating an exquisite meal, the light inside the place seemingly drawn to him before radiating off ten times brighter. The person at the table next to him was reading a book, one that had been crudely put together, the god had most likely noticed, and using his godly abilities, he made note that it was a book of poems.
Curious now, as poetry was his domain, the god asked to borrow the book the other man was reading, to which the mortal promptly responded that he could keep it; he was done reading anyways.
Grateful, the god began to read, and thus began to fall in love with the woman behind the words. They were dark, mysterious, and spoke volumes while at the same time saying nothing. The formatting was unique, the tone offsetting yet lovable. Immediately the god felt he had to find this woman, and find her he did.
The god knew not the womans age when he fell in love with her, nor did he care to know. It took months of pursuit from the gods end to get Ameta, who by this time had changed her name to Amanda Hendrickson, to notice him, months that he spent looking at nobody else but her, a rare thing for this god who knew how to get around. And, finally, when the woman was seventeen, his efforts paid off. She finally acknowledged him for the feelings he felt to her, and, two months later, I was conceived.
Long and terrible, yeah? But it had a happy ending, I suppose. Problem is, my mother never learned that the man she fell in love with was a god, a Greek one at that, and she never knew that four months before she gave birth, he'd go running after a man who knew how to sing. She never had the slightest hint or clue as to the extent of the horrors that her second child was going to face. She never knew any of this, and, damn, I sure wish she had.
Anyways. After her second child was born, at the precise stroke of midnight on December 21st of 1999, Amanda Hendrickson decided to adopt a Christian behavior and religion as best as she could, feeling that, at the base of her parents religion, the one religion she knew, Christianity was most closely related, yet nowhere near as brutal. So she raised her son on this belief, and when he was three, she married a man with charm. For a year, they lived a happy life living in a beach house in Florida, Amanda, her son named Pierre Hendrickson, and the man she had married, who I shall not name because even I don't remember. That's how short of a time he had been in our lives.
Almost a year later, Amanda had become pregnant with her third child. She and her husband were ecstatic, though little four year old me couldn't have cared less. A new sibling? Cool. Good on you mom. Hope it's a boy.
Sadly, though, she had complications during birth. The child was born two months premature, and sick beyond control. The baby girl lasted no more than forty minutes outside the womb from which she had been torn. The baby girl had made no sound after exiting besides the rattling gasps of deaths hand at her throat before finally, finally being put to rest and ceasing all noise.
Amanda and her husband were devastated beyond compare. Hours after her death, they named the baby girl Hope Hendrickson-Potts, a name I later thought was terrible, as there had been no hope for the small child that would have been my sister- and they planned an immediate cremation for the tiny human that never even opened her eyes.
Fast forward to a year later and more tragedy struck our little family of three. A total of about four miscarriages were thrown somewhere in the middle, with a total of five children lost. A month after that year, Amandas husband was diagnosed with late stage bone cancer, something already hard to treat but now impossible at the stage he was at. A month after that, he died, and Amanda was forced to take her only son and move off of the beach paradise we lived on to escape all the terrible memories that were there. She moved to a small town with a population below two hundred a week after her husbands death, and six year old me grew to know that run down town as home from then on out.
Are we happy yet? No. Of course we aren't. But we were as happy as we could be. My mom and I against the world, with a whole lot of fucking issues from me.
My mom taught me under Christian beliefs in this small town. I mean, she did before, but more so now in this town where everyone knew their neighbor and even the guy on the other side of town. We started going to church every Sunday, and, upon my eighth birthday, I had been baptised.
Now, did that mean much to me? Of course not. I ended up exactly like my mom in her teenage years, except worse.
The night I turned ten, I had my first vision,or prophecy, if you may. In it, someone with an Oregon license plate had been speeding down the street in front of my house, going about seventy in the twenty five zone. Suddenly, their tire hit one of the many potholes there, and had made them lose control of their car. They had swerved out of control, and hit the light post in front of my house. Stupidly, this person hadn't been wearing a seatbelt, and the ended up flying through the front window. Already bloody, this person also miraculously managed to fly through my window as well, and their already mutilated body became worse and was now inside my bedroom. The light post that they had so kindly crashed into fell, thankfully missing my house, but killed the neighbors dog.
This person driving the Oregon state licensed vehicle had had a baby in the backset, who, sadly, due to the trauma of the stop and the force of the things falling on it from that weird space between the back window and the back of the backseats, had been crushed to death.
Now, this appeared to me as a vivid as all hell dream on the night of my tenth birthday. Of course, I was fucked up as all shit from it. I woke up in a snap as soon as the dream would let me, crying and screaming for my mother, who then promptly came to my rescue, calming my poor soft, innocent and racing heart down. She took me to her room, and for two weeks I slept with her every night she didnt work until the dream stopped haunting me. And as soon as they stopped haunting me, it happened. The man and his baby died inside and outside of my house, exactly as I had dreamed, light post killing my neighbors dog and everything, down to the very smallest and last detail.
At that point I was traumatized. I didnt sleep for two whole nights, until my next vision forced me to take a small ten second nap.
My art teacher was next to die. She had been pregnant before my vision, but now there were complications during her childbirth inside my vision, and neither of them survived.
Low and behold, two months later, what I saw in my dream happened in the real world, and I knew it couldn't be much of a coincidence. I had seen four people die on two separate occasions, and they had died exactly as I had seen. It was no longer a stroke of luck, but a gift. A gift that was a curse thrown upon me. A curse that had changed my life forever.
...I must go, now. My man needs me to sleep, the big softie he is. I will continue this tomorrow. I need to finish my story before it is too late. I know exactly when I am supposed to die, and it is soon... You cant see this until after I die, and if you do,please, do not talk about it.
For now, my new chapters will consist of a whole bunch of enters. I dont know how to start a new page without asking for help. And yes... Chapters. I am making a book out of this for you to read. You asked for my story, and now you shall get my life. I just hope it turns out alright...