I sit in my dark room, struggling to breathe through all the dust. I must have been trapped in here for at least two days, I can't tell for sure. The room has no windows, no lights, only the deathly gloom of darkness inhabits the room. For the first few hours my screams kept the darkness company. But, eventually my screams began to fade. My throat is still sore from the hours I screamed. I screamed for help, for release, and eventually, I screamed for death. My screams still echo in my ears, even after all the time that has past.
What did I do to deserve this? I always tried to be a good son, to her. Nothing I did was ever good enough for her. Everything I did was wrong. Why doesn't she love me? Why does she do nothing but abuse me? This time isn't just for abuse. I know what she is doing; I just don't want to believe it. I don't want to believe that she is going to kill me so she can keep welfare checks coming without having to deal with me anymore. Even though I know this to be true, I try to tell myself otherwise. I don't want to die; I never even got a chance to live. Fresh tears begin to swell in my blue eyes. I don't even bother to hold them back. I let them fall, I let them form pools on the wood floor. I take a deep breath to try and get myself back under control, Panicking will surely get me killed, but I am sent into a coughing fit from all the dust in the room. I was never allowed to clean my room. My mom always wanted me to be in the worst living conditions possible, probably hoping I would die of disease and get out of her life that way.
After my coughing fit subsides, I lie down on the cold hardwood floor. I just lie there, listening to the growing of my stomach. I rest my hand on my stomach, trying to make the pain go away. I want food, I want warmth, but most of all, I want love. I want to run outside, I want to play with the other kids, I want to go to school. I want this pain to go away. But it won't go away, it will never go away. This pain will haunt me like a ghost until the day I die, which at this rate won't be long.
I close my eyes and just think about the life that I could have had, I life where my mom and dad actually loved me. A life where I had friends, and went to school. I curl up in the fetal position and just cry. It is the only release for pain I have. After a few minutes I begin another screaming fit. I don't care that my throat burns, I don't care that I am hungry, I don't care that I am tired, I don't even care about surviving anymore. I am going to scream until I die. I am screaming so she hears me. So the devil, just ten feet below me, can hear my screams. If I am going to die, then I am going to make her life as miserable as I can until I do.
I hear the creaking of the old steps and stop my screaming. Did someone actually hear me? Is someone coming to help me? My joy is quickly shot down when the door opens and my mom is in the door way. She is just standing there, smoking a cigarette. She just stares at me and moves her blond hair out of the way. I begin screaming again, doing anything I can to get her away. She doesn't move. I can see a smirk growing ever larger. She reaches out a pulls out a pistol.
"This is the same pistol I shot you daddy with, I thought it fitting you when the same way." I didn't even get a chance to respond when an ear shatter blast rang through the house.
It has been awhile since I wrote a short story, so I thought I would write one, Don't want to get too rusty.