I prayed to God that night. I prayed to him every night. I click-clacked my prayer beads. I heard the monsters strolling near the program's door. I can smell his breath of alcohol, the lady's smell of fancy perfume on her wrists and neck.

They were demons, sent from Hell to torture me! This was God's test for me! I prayed and prayed and prayed but yet they still wouldn't stop getting near the door, screaming, yelling, the father becoming more belligerent.

Click clack. Click clack. Click clack. The prayer beads never seemed to help. I had them because it was a compulsive need to feel safe. Like how I washed my hands several times a day. Only several. They were rough and callused underneath his gloves. He wasn't sure how it happened. But I told him. I told him. And he didn't seem to accept it.

The beasts kept coming. I can smell their hot breath upon my breasts, on the program's chest. The bitch of a woman told him that she never had once abused him, yet she kept groping him, touching him, and I wanted her to stop, and felt as if I needed to piss on the bed. I wanted them to stop. I wanted them to go somewhere else, where I wouldn't have to deal with their shit.

The praying never worked. I felt like God never watched us, even though He was a multiple Himself.

She kept coming closer, while the husband seemed to smell the fear in my breath. I didn't want them here. I was writing. I was writing something that would set me free. This story. This story. It was all my creation. It was the only thing I had.

I smelled the rusty hinges of the blade near my neck, as she told me that, somehow in a cry of mockery of her supposed innocence of never touching this child, she told me I had to lie flat on the ground and just allow her to assume the position again. The husband watched, with yellow, lupus-drenched eyes. I tried to speak, but she cut a sliver of the program's neck with her razor. It hurt. It hurt so bad. I didn't want to hurt even further, but it was all I could do, to protect him and the Others.

The night was hot, fetid, and I smelled the rotting corpses of rats underneath the floorboards. I could see the moon, the moths that hung in the air like flies stuck to flypaper, wanting to get in for the program's candlelight.

A moth to a flame. If only we had lightbulbs. But we didn't.

She kept straddling him, fondling him, and it made me feel sick. I wanted to do something about it for once, not just to take it and say nothing about it. The moon was sickly hot underneath the skin. I tried to grab her razor, and she fought back, slashing the sheets of the bed, the light blue linen being more destroyed than what it was (with piss stains and blood and even cum) and my palm was bleeding, odious oxygen-rich blood coming out of our bodies as if we were a smiling pig ready to be braised for a Christmas oven, I grabbed the razor and could feel it slice my hands, but I was able to take it. I took it. And then I started slashing her. Slashing her like she was that same pig. And she screamed, the little piggy screamed! With her glorious body fit for an empress bleeding like that fine roast I wanted her father to fucking eat, she managed to retrieve her cell phone and call 911, that her son had gone crazy. Of course, she wasn't going to let them in the house, else the paramedics would question why she never dressed the house up like she dressed herself up. An unfit mother taking care of a mentally ill son. How ridiculous would she look, holding her son, her 11 year old son, saying that he was insane and needed to be locked up in the hospital? The hospital that was down the road from this nowhere Kansas city, putting him in straightjackets and giving him a vial of pills every day. We didn't want it. We wanted to kill her and put her in the oven. Have her husband, the pig he was, eat another pig. And when they arrived outside of the home, she started crying and screaming, her histrionic dramatics that her son was crazy and needed to be sent away, how insane he was to hurt his very own loving mother with a rusty razor.

She claimed the other razor marks on her was him cutting himself. And they believed her. They believed in every morsel of lies she fed them. It was bullshit.

Catatonia set in at the realization that Sonic had to be sent away. He tried to tell them the truth of what his mother did. But they loved his mother. They saw her in the movies and weren't even going to criticize her shabby house and the rotting boards that could sink your body into the dark attic, where her dead babies lived. The babies she was never charged for, just to get attention.

A nurse, a movie star. She lived the dream of Americana.

While an 11-year-old child had to be sent to an insane asylum for other children like him. And did they believe him that he might've had multiple personalities? Dissociative identity? No.

They said he was schizophrenic, cut and dry case.

They gave him medications that sent us to sleep. The other children were afraid of us, but they might as well be, because we were hurt, and scared, and we didn't want to go through this, so many times in our life.

When the bitch came back to pick us up she talked about how well-behaved he was, so tired and sleepy and doped up on Elanvil. After she made nice little chit-chat to the doctors and nurses, telling them they did a wonderful job with her son, we met her in her Rolls-Royce, where she proceeded to slap us and tell us that she was God and we could do nothing to her, nothing, else she'll send us to an even worse hospital than here.

And we listened.

And we never fought back again.