This is not one of those brainless love stories that you would expect from others. This is about Gaz and her life. Please R&R, even if it's just to say that never in your life have you read such a horrible story. Thank you.
My mother is dead, my father is dead and my brother just died. I'm alone, apart from the dirt that I usually hang out with. It's because of him, my father. Or my mom. Or my brother. Or maybe it's because of me, Gaz. When I was about four, my mother committed suicide. She jumped out of a two-story window and broke her neck on the sidewalk. Perhaps she could have lived if she had wanted to, but I think that she simply let go. The day after she was buried, a Black patch began to form on my chest over my heart. I t was a little thing, barely the size of a quarter, and I soon forgot about it. But every day, although I didn't notice it then, the spot grew a little. So little at first that I didn't notice it at all.
The day they found my father's body lying face down on the carpet, The black patch grew another inch around. I was called for questioning along with Dib since we both had motives. You see the reason for the patch when my mother died was not the same as when my father died. There was one witness to my mother's suicide. A solitary child who watched her father push an innocent woman out of a window. I felt no real remorse for grabbing him, making sure that he saw my face, and then plunging a letter opener deep into his heart. I was wearing leather gloves so that my fingerprints wouldn't be seen, and then left the weapon on the table. My alibi was flawless. I had been with Dib the whole day, which was almost laughable, since according to him, we were at the mall, my personal hell.
When I was about eighteen, I came away from some drunk guy I met at a bar with something I didn't want. The Selective Birth Control Center is set behind an iron fence to protect it from protesters. There was a quiet garden outside. Inside, there were several people. An angry looking woman with a sixteen year old girl, a weeping mother with a confused-looking twelve year old, and a nonchalant looking girl smoking a cigarette and talking on her cell-phone occupied the uncomfortable chairs. Corny posters about the " special " things that were going to happen adorned the walls. I was called to the office. The procedure was painless. That night, another two inches grew on the patch of black.
The day that I took up smoking grew another inch on the patch. The day I took up drinking it grew another inch. The day that I started downing pills like food grew another inch. Pretty soon, most of my torso was a dark, irregular patch. I never wore belly shirts or bikinis. I never went to the doctor for fear of the patch being seen by others. Most of the guys who hit me up were half out of it anyway, so they never questioned it. Besides, when they went home, they completely forgot who I was or what had happened the night before.
I never socialized with anyone (except to share a needle) and often stayed in the house with the shades drawn and the doors and windows locked. One night, I was making my way home with a pack of cheap beer in one arm and a baggie of X in another. I was aware of my surroundings as one could be when loaded and drunk at the same time. I hardly noticed the hulking figure of the sniper until the tranquilizer dart hit me. Then I blacked out.