The UnderTaker

I stared with hatred into the mirror, stared into my own eyes, seeing what was meeting the intense glare.

I hated my eyes.

I yanked hard on my silvergray bangs, willing them to cover those hateful crystals.

But the bangs weren't long enough yet, father had pulled them off last month, and my bangs were only reaching my eyebrows.

I would never be able to get rid of them, and I would always be met by the color I hated the most, every time I looked into the mirror, or a shop window in town where we sometimes went.

Mother didn't want to bring me out, didn't want me to leave the so-called house we lived in.

She was freaked out by the way my eyes looked, by the color of my hair, the paleness of my skin.

I couldn't blame her, as I was engrossed by it too. I weren't worthy to live, I weren't necesary, they already had three sons, three normal ones, and three daughters, that they tried to marry away to wealty men.

I was something unplanned.

Something they never wanted.

Strange.

Freaky.

Gross.

I hated when father was drunk, yet I loved it.

I hated how angry he would get at my mere existance, loved how he would hit me until I passed out from the pain. So I finally could rest for a little while, from the hurt and pain.

I hated the dirty looks of hatred he threw my way, yet I loved it so much when he called me worthless, disgusting, for it was so undeniably true.

I hated how it was only me, always me, yet I loved the feeling to know I had all his attention, when he usually gave me none.

I knew I was alive,because the pain felt so real.

You couldn't feel pain when you were dead, right?

Whenever I try to stab my eyess out, someone stops me. I don't know why, souldn't they be happy? Or do they want as many reasons as possible to hate me?

I feel so stupid sometimes, that I even fail at dying. I mean, is it really that hard, or is it just me?

I suppose it's me.

But right now, I don't feel like just dying. That's not enough to satisfy me.

I want pain before the finishing blow.

I guess that makes me a masochist.

But in truth, I don't really like pain, so I'm not sure. Now, I'm happy if I can get a laugh every now and then.

The only reason I let my hair grow so long is to hide my eyes.

It's been so long since anybody's seen them that no one knows their color anymore.

Except me.

I know they would still be there even if I stabbed them out.

The reason I took this job is easy.

The dead can't mock me.

I am the UnderTaker.