Steven Brown Sentinel of Sorrow

By: Yugi

Yugi: Hello i'm the author of this work. I don't do this stuff, ya'll can check my arms, legs, neck, back, whatever. I see to much pain though and this helps me. I know this will be a sad story and I will only continue it if people review it. Steven Brown is fictional to me, and if you meet a similiar person by the same name it's clearly a coincidence. This is not who i based Sentinel of Sorrow on. I know it will be hard and personal for some. I want to continue but I will not if no one wants me to. that's all I have to say other than i don't papa roach nor the song Last resort. Thank you.

--

I stand there and watch as my family is slowly being ripped apart(emotionally). My father the alcoholic only drives us further apart and I can't take it anymore. I feel the sharp blade of my father's "missing" razor knife cutting into the soft flesh of the underside of my forearm. I feel the tears of pain filling my eyes with blurry, salty fluids. I don't let them fall though. I could never let them fall or else I would fail my charade.

Sorry to start out so morbidly folks, but I'm not a happy person. My name is Steven Brown and I'm 17 years old. I'm small and skinny for my age and nobody seems to like me at school. They never say it, but I can feel their hating eyes on my back.

My home isn't much better. My father is an angry alcoholic. He works at a law firm and acts so perfect around other people but with my family it's a whole nother story.

My family isn't big, just me my twin sis and mom. I don't consider my father part of the family. He hates me I can tell and even though me and Sarah are twins we don't get along. Mom isn't so bad, but she's not so good either, she's not much of anything except for a mom.

Recently my taste in music, clothes, shows, and even chat rooms has changed morbidly. I know that I probably look like a goth now. I wear the make up to hide my hurt eyes. I wear the long sleaves and gloves to hide the cuts. I even have my lanky, newly dyed black, hair hanging in my eyes. In fact ever hear the song by Papa Roach, Last Resort, that's how I feel everyday.

Like I was saying though, I feel the blood flow over my arm and the release of pressure in my heart is ridiculus. Before it can go any farther though I take the role of bandage's I recently bought, and wrap my mutilated arm. I pull on my long sleeve shirt and the fish net jersey I wear over it back on. I pull on my fingerless black gloves. Now unlike most other goth's or depressed people I use no drugs or alcohol. I can't, I'd feel even worst.

I walk over to my stereo and pump my rock music. I sit at my desk, pull out a piece of paper and a calligraphy pen and begin to write in long loopy leaders, The Sentinel of Sorrow.

The pain is to much to compare

Many people stop and stare

To laugh at what I bare

To mock me 'cause I care

Burnt me till I'm medium rare

They strike my heart and I begin to tear

It's to much and i'm beggining to wear

I run to hide in the sorrow of my lair

It makes we want to rip out my hair

All of this so tremendously unfair

The pain that we all should share

Before the despair I wasn't aware

Now there's no way I can prepare

There's all to much pain to repair

I am the sorrow's only heir

I drop the pen and sit there my eyes staring down at my work and I grin.