I sat on the edge of my bed, the fuzzy high from whatever the hell my last cigarette had been laced with impairing my judgment, and the small razor held against the blue bulge on my wrist. The most prominent feeling I remember about that night, was how cold the blade was. Cold... dreadfully cold. Cold as icy claws of death that had clutched at my heart months before, cold as the ice that coated Siberia in the winter. Cold as the Antarctic. The pain. The pain was nothing. Literally, nothing. Not nearly as bad as the time I had snapped my femur, or fractured forearm, or even the last time I had my immunizations. The pain that rippled through my vein as the razor strained to bust through the rubbery surface, was a welcoming ripple of pleasure. The kind of pleasure one might associate with euphoria, such as that produced by chocolate. The best part of that night, was when the razor broke through. That moment, I began to think about the afterlife, what it was like, if it was the kind of ghost hauntings displayed in movies. I knew it wasn't. I'd been there before. The side I felt was empty. Purgatory. The only thing I had felt then was the jolt from the defibrillator, restarting my heart. Now, the only thing I felt, was the hope that it may be different. I gazed, eyes wide, as I watched the tons of black-red blood pour from my wrist. I felt it surge slightly, and then spatter onto my dark hair and into my pale blue eye, I watched it pour onto the floor, flowing against the door that busted open with a paramedic and my mother. By that point, the only things I saw were blurs, the fuzz from the cigarette and anemia from the blood loss eventually knocking me unconscious.
Upon awakening, the first thing I saw was the blood filled bag, and then the tube leading to my arm, pumping in more blood. I could feel it pulse into my body, the rejuvenating feeling making me sick to the stomach. And then I smelled the wavering scent of the only thing that could make me bend my will. Sugar cookies. I slowly sat up to see where the ravishing aroma was coming from, and saw a doctor in a long lab coat, standing over me with a sugar cookie. My love for sugar cookies is so great, the only way I could explain it is with an analogy. If I had to choose between the most beautiful, love of my life woman, and a sugar cookie, I'd pick the cookie. Actually, I'd be the one pushing the bitch into a pit of spikes just to see if her blood was a specific crimson I had thought may look good in a painting. When I saw the source of the smell, I snatched the cookie up from the man's hand, and he seemed to jump at my sudden movement. I was munching ravenously on the cookie when I saw what his trickery was.
"Vermin..." I muttered as I realized that he was getting my blood sugar up. He just laughed.
"Ohoho! My boy, you need to learn a little something about respect. I saved your life!" he chuckled in an old jolly fat person kind of way, which was funny because he was really quite slender.
"Who says I wanted to be saved?" I grumbled, imagining his disemboweled body laying in a pool of blood with organs scattered around, squishing out small amounts of blood when I savagely crept upon them.
"Don't say that! I'm sure you have plenty to live for, take, for instance, your mother. How would she feel if you killed yourself, or you father?" he rambled on.
I gave way to my timid, preferred sesquipedalian, ways entirely and began to feel a shallow worded tirade coming on. I could feel the unnatural rage beginning to melt the ice around my soul into a fiery inferno of rage. I swallowed to quench the fires of their undying heat, and replied. "My mother? She wouldn't give a shit. The only reason she got the ambulance here is so she wouldn't be arrested for neglect. My father is long gone. What else should I live for? School? The thrill of life?"
"Yes. You should study hard for an education, set goals for yourself, and most of all, help people."
"Freaking corrupt society if I ever heard one. No chance in hell that everyone is about to think out their lives so they can perfect the ever striven for perfect society. Your a damn socialist, and you can rot in Hell for all I care." I am unsure how I had come to that conclusion, but I seemed to hit a nerve. I watched him tense.
"I am beginning to get very cross with you, young man. I should call your mother in." he said with a distinctly hidden steam of anger building up in the back of his head, threatening to bust through and control his muscles into pounding me. I laughed. The worst thing possible to do at the moment, a deep, mocking, and most of all evil laugh. He snapped. I could tell because of the inhuman twitch in his eye, and the curling of his fingers. I knew what he was about to do, and I was glad. I was glad he was going to do it. I just wanted to know how. Maybe pulling out the needle from my arm, allowing the blood to poor freely? Or perhaps a simple syringe to the eye, or maybe lungs? But I did know, I saw the way his fingers curled, I saw the most unfavorable death to me, the only one that actually scared me; asphyxiation. I knew he was going to delve his latex gloved doctor hands into my throat, and cut off my breathing. I waited a bit.
"Well get on with it!" I said, waiting for the grasp upon me.
"Get on with what?" the doctor said, angrily puzzled.
"Kill me. Strangle me, whatever the hell you were planning to do, do it!" I nearly shouted.
"Ohohoho! You're good boy, but not that good. Your ways of manipulation can only get you so far. I'm not going to kill you, the most sadistic thing I could do to you, since you are so set on dying, is let you live, no, make, you live. Get the picture?" His self control surprised me.
"Son of a bitch..." I murmured as I slumped back against the pillow behind my neck. "Leave me." I said, waving my hand at him. The walls were fading. I was slipping, into the unreality of dreams, the better world to me.

* * *

I flew through a sandy beach, not a twenty minute bike ride to my house, I flew above the many ugly people, all slitting their wrists, blowing there brains out with shotguns, slicing through their necks with glistening red blades, the beautiful crimson pouring onto the sand, mixing with both the pale cream grains, and the water making a sea-foam blue and red, kind of mixed with pink color in my sight. I flew down towards them, no control over where I was going, I pounded into the ground.
"Join ussssssssssss..." one of them muttered, holding a handful of nails out to me. I grabbed them out of his hand, just as he splattered his brains across my face. I picked a piece of gray matter out of my hair, and flung it to the beach, readying my handful of nails to rip down the walls of my esophagus, puncturing it, making my lungs fill slowly with blood. Not my preferred method to go, but effective enough. I did consider ramming one of the nails repeatedly into my vein, but that seemed like it could be a little difficult to me, after all, after the first or second stab, the tendons in my arm would be rendered useless, and I would have to wait a good while before all of my beautiful crimson life had seeped out of a couple of pinholes. I went for the swallowing. Just as I smacked my hand over my mouth, pouring all the nails down my throat, each and every one individually tearing its own way down to my esophagus, I shot out of my body, a ghost, if you will, floating above myself, emancipated from the torture life had brought upon me.

* * *
And then I woke up, extremely pissed at the nurse who was lifting the covers off of me.
"Up." was all she said. I could barely understand that through her thick Hispanic accent. I slid my legs over the edge of the bed, and cringed as I felt the wave of freezing air pulse through me. I was about to ask why it was so cold, but I already knew, I still didn't have full blood levels.
"Damn anemia..." I muttered as my feet hit the freezing floor. The ill-fitting hospital gown did not help, either. I stood, and walked towards the chair that held my old clothes, waving at the nurse to leave the room. She may not have understood English well, but she understood that I wanted her to leave, and she did. I slipped back into my dark jeans and blood stained tee shirt, and walked to a duffel bag my mother appeared to have brought. I unzipped the top, and looked at the contents. I sighed as I picked up a white long sleeve tee shirt, and looked through the bag some more. There was a fresh pair of lighter jeans than I preferred, and, thank God, a black tee-shirt. I opted out for the black shirt, with the white one under it, for the long sleeves. I left the hospital room, leaving the duffel bag and its vile bright pants behind me. The halls were not as empty as I hoped for, but nevertheless, the nurse had told me "Up." and I was up. Just as I turned out the door, not at all lost (I know the hospital quite well), the doctor popped up, grinning through his stupid coke-bottle glasses. I then realized I still had no shoes.
"Ugh..." I snorted in disgust as the doctor stopped me and tried to start a conversation.
"Hello, my boy, are you feeling better? An attitude adjustment, maybe?" the doctor chuckled.
"Enough." I muttered and tried to escape.
"Not so fast, my boy, we haven't filled out your release forms yet. Do you have any clue where you mother would be?"
"No." I was hoping I could make it by the rest of the day with only one word answers.
"Let me walk you to the patient cafeteria, I'm sure you'd rather eat with civilized people than all by yourself in your room."
"Sure." I shrugged. I knew where the patient cafeteria was, I needed no guidance, but I was really wanting to see how long I could get away with just one word answers. We walked, and somehow I managed to maintain a one word answer for each and every one of his chunks of small talk. Just as I was beginning to wonder if he knew how to say anything other than small talk, we made it to the cafeteria, and he buzzed off to go speak with some more of his verbose doctor buddies. I, on the other hand, got a tray of food. At this point, I didn't care if it was his evil plot to make me survive, I just wanted to eat. I was starving, the only thing I had eaten in the past twenty four hours, was a sugar cookie. I walked to the food area, and piled my plate with steak. I was praying that it was at least medium, and not well done. Rare would be the best, but it was a hospital, doubted. I also grabbed a roll. I sat down at what was hopefully the least occupied table, and began to eat, paying no mind to the crowd around me. The steak was overcooked, and the roll was hard and cold, but I ate it all anyways, that's how hungry I was. A person sat down next to me with their tray and began to strike a conversation.
"Whoa... you seriously ate the steak here?" she asked as her tray slid onto the table with the recognizable ease of a regular, like me.
"Haven't eaten in a while..." I murmured, breaking my try at a one word day, and examining my wrist. "A regular?" I then proceeded to ask.
"Yeah... how'd you tell?" she asked, seeming slightly puzzled.
"The way you handled your tray. A noob would have set it down, or dropped it on the floor in an attempt to slide it. You slid it it with finesse, like a seasoned sticky tray handler." I murmured, still realizing how much damage I really had done to my wrist, and completely ruining my earlier vow. I clenched and unclenched my hand a few times, realizing the muscular discomforts in my finger like appendages. Oh wait... they are fingers.
"You're very observant!" she exclaimed, and then asked, "so you're a regular too?"
"Yeah..." I murmured back, my posture slightly hunched, and in a nearly relaxed looking position.
"What're you in for? I nearly OD-ed on some ecstasy some jack ass slipped in my drink."
I didn't say anything, just sort of rolled my sleeve up more, and showed the wounds.
"Oh... wow... did it hurt?"
"Not really... although I wasn't exactly sober... if you're examining the prospect yourself, only tip I have, make sure you wont be interrupted."
"Damn... you read my mind..."
"Bad family life?" I asked her. Not really caring, but recognizing her plea for help, and not desiring to push her off the deep end.
"You could say that..." it was her turn to mutter this time. I said nothing, but instead nodded my head. I understood. The cafeteria appeared to be crowding even more around us, and I began to feel as if I was going to suffocate.
"Crap," I muttered, "I really have to go, way too many people..."
"Mind if I tag along?" she asked. I just shrugged in response as I walked to the tray return. As expected, she followed. I didn't know her name, mainly because I hadn't bothered to ask, and she was following me. Slightly weird, but not that bad. I winged a left out of the cafeteria, and headed towards the smoking lounge, and reached into my pocket.
"Dammit..." I muttered, realizing I didn't have a pack on me.
"You mean you are actually old enough to smoke?" she asked me.
"Nope. Doesn't stop me." I murmured as I turned back towards my room. "I probably didn't bring any with me either..."
"So which wing did they put you in?" she asked as she twisted her hair in between her fingers. A nervous habit, I assumed.
"D. But I'm about to move to H for physical, and probably mental, therapy. They don't understand, it never works..." I trailed off at the end, unintentionally dramatic sounding.
"Wait... you've tried this before?" She asked, slightly bewildered.
"Yup." was all I said in response, trying to recall exactly what happened the last time I tried.
"I just realized something-" She was cut off by a couple of doctors shooting by, pushing a cart at lightning speed.
"They're gonna hurt someone... or themselves." I said, watching as the barreled through the halls of the hospital. I continued down the hall a bit until I reached my room, and retrieved my duffel bag, and looked around for any possessions I may have brought with me.
"So... do you live around here?" my perhaps friend asked me.
"Not ten miles down the road. You?" I responded, grabbing a piece of gum out of the duffel bag.
"About five or six," she laughed, "We aught to hang out sometime."
"Maybe, if I can ever get my way out of the hospital. Damn therapy. I'll probably be here on mandatory therapy for months... or the therapist down the street." I said, looking down at where I didn't have a watch. "Hey, do you have the time?"
"Yeah..." She said looking down at her watch, "It's... 3:15."
"Shit. Or maybe I should be happy. I was supposed to be in therapy five minutes ago. I'll catch you around." I said as I turned to the elevator, and took it to the fifth floor. When I reached the therapy block, and finally made it to the proper room, I was relieved to see that the doctor was still in with another patient. I breathed a sigh of relief, and took a seat in one of the chairs outside of the office. When the child inside was finally done, it was my turn.
"Good afternoon!" the therapist said, over the top cheerfully, and swinging her arms in some kind of alien gesture.
"Hi." I said stoically, sitting down in the chair on the other side of her desk. Her face was some kind of twist between a fake smile, and a disgusted one. Her light hair was a frizz as she reached across the table to shake my hand. I looked wearily at her slender hand, before taking it and firmly giving it a shake. The last time I had been to one of these "doctors", she treated me like I was a toddler. Handshake buzzers and other pranks were everywhere in her room. Thank God (if there is one) that this "doctor" appeared more sophisticated. The hand shake went smoothly.
"I understand that you may find this visit impertinent and boring, so I will take as little of your time as possible. What do you see?" the woman asked, holding up a card with a Rorschach on it.
"Damn ink block tests... blood splatter." I said, taking a glance at the card.
"Ok... how about now?" she said, pulling out another card.
"A Rorschach, duh."
"Now?"
"A pile of bloodied children, wallowing in their own excrement as they are shot out into the ocean in most likely their last scaphism run." I said, purposefully giving out dramatic pauses, and sitting back in a relaxed manner with a purposefully blank expression.
"That's... nice..." she said, making a very strange face. "Well... I guess we are done for today... please, come back Wednesday at three." The psychiatrist gathered her papers, and ushered me out of the room.
'Well that went nice, extremely short for a shrink visit...' I thought as I made my way to the floor's information desk. I gave the receptionist my name, and she gave me my room number. I made my way towards the room, when I bumped into the girl from earlier.
"Hey." she said.
"Hey," I replied, giving her an odd look, "What are you doing up here? I thought you were still in the medical ward."
She sighed before saying, "Well, apparently it did more 'mental' damage than physical, even though I feel fine, and they put me in therapy."
I murmured a shallow swear, and turned to my room's door.
"Well, I'm about to be called for more therapy, more likely than not, and I would like to get situated first. See you around." I said as I pushed the door open.
"Alright, see yah." she responded, sashaying away in some kind of odd catlike walk. I confusedly stepped into my room, and sat my bag down, without even looking around. Bad idea. I nearly jumped out of my pants when I heard a voice in the room. Instead of jumping like I wanted to, I cringed, and slowly turned towards the voice. I couldn't quite make out what the voice was saying but it didn't appear to be directed at me. The voice was feminine, and seemed almost rude to whoever they were talking to. The small growl in the back of her throat told me that she was a smoker, but not that old of one. If I were to guess, I'd say she had been smoking for about a year or two. Her voice had an odd kind of youthful sound to it, but the smoker's growl almost made it difficult to give me an age. I guessed late 20's. I finally looked up to the voice, to see her. She had medium length dark brown hair, nearly black, put up in a bun, pulling the rest of her hair in a strange tangle that fell upon her pink rimmed glasses. Her face was tan, with high cheek bones, and way too much make up on. Super thick eyelashes, whore red lips, and nearly blood blush. She looked even more like a whore how she wore her doctor uniform: half unbuttoned. I could see her bra. By the time she got off the damn phone, I was sitting on the foot of the bed, contemplating ways to get rid of her, most of which resulted in death. When she started talking, I pulled one out of my ass.
"Good afternoon," she began, "I am doctor Wilkes. I will be your physical therapist today. Before we start, do you have any questions?" She had an extremely creepy expression, that I can not explain or place. Same with her tone of voice. I paused a couple of seconds before responding.
"Yes, why are you dressed like a whore? What the hell are you, a pedophile?" I asked, quite blunt, and my tone less harsh than I would have preferred. According to her face, though, my tone was harsh enough. She stammered a bit before responding to my bluntness.
"Well, um... no." Was all she could manage before I burst out laughing and slamming my face upon my palm. Her reaction was too perfect, and I wanted to appear crazy, so a maniacal laugh fit the situation perfectly.
As I cackled like a mad man, the doctor just kind of stared.
"Give me your hand." She commanded in a tone that nearly forced me to comply. But I didn't. I looked up at her, crazy still in one of my eyes, and gave her possibly the dumbest response ever.
"Why?" was all I said, but my voice defined my defiance, evil undertones to a cheerful and nearly psychotic laugh that was still in my voice.
"Because I am your damned physical therapist, that's why." She said angrily, snatching my wrist. For a second, I thought she was going to try and harm me, but she just moved my wrist around, putting her other hand on my joint.
"Not sure about the 'physical therapist' part, but you sure are damned." I muttered, somewhat pissed that she was fondling my wrist, and somewhat pissed that she had taken me off guard. All around, I was pissed. Apparently she hadn't heard me, because all she did was move my wrist about and ask me if it was uncomfortable or hurt, to which my responses were all negative with sarcastic retorts at the end.
Thankfully, the whore didn't find tendon damage or any of that shit, so I escaped the prison like claws of physical therapy. Now all I had to worry about was mental. When the doctor finally left, I was happily alone to think about my future, past, and anything else that happened to pass through my mind. I thought about trying again, from right here in the hospital, but I knew I would just have to go through the entire process again. The window was a tempting one, but I was only on the third floor, I wouldn't die, I'd just break a limb. As I was thinking about calling the nurse for a meal, and maybe ask for some reading material, my mother burst into the room, obviously hammered.
"Grab your things, we're leaving." she said in a very commanding tone. I knew not to disobey her, starving to death would be my least favored way to go, so I did as she said, and asked one question.
"What about my release papers?" I asked while I grabbed my duffel bag. She just waved her fist full of papers at me. I simply nodded and followed her out the door. The hospital was writhing with people this time, unlike my last visit. My last visit it had been extremely creepy, nearly no one could be found in the halls. As we dashed through the halls, my mother dragging me by my arm, the doctors who had been in charge of me were watching, and shaking their heads. Something was up, and I wanted to know what, but I knew better than to ask my mother at this point in her steady decline from intoxication. I could stop her from doing almost anything, but if asked her a question, she would either be enraged, or shut down, neither of which did I want. I silently followed my mother out of the hospital. We climbed into the car, and set off for the couple minute drive home. I watched as the key slid in, made a little click, and was then forced into the start position. The engine puttered to life, and the car pulled out of the parking place. My mother was pulling out.
"SHIT!" I shouted as she pulled out. I knew she shouldn't be driving. We narrowly missed smashing a motor-biker, who flicked us off, and she then tried to drive some more. Before we had made it ten feet out, the airbag shot into my face, and I felt the car begin to slide sideways. I then noticed all the glass shuttering through the air, slicing through the car, and through my mother, and through me. I looked down, I felt as if everything was moving in slow motion, and watched as a piece of glass slid itself across my forearm, grazing just enough to leave a deep cut. I watched as the back of the car began to morph into the side of the car and smash. Whenever I finally turned to see what had hit us, I had multiple scrapes and dents myself, and the car was even worse off. I looked out the back window to see an eighteen-wheeler pushing us along as it screeched to a halt, the driver unharmed. I turned to my mother, to see nothing but a blood mangled wreck. I searched her with my eyes, until I finally found her neck. I placed my throbbing hand to her throat, to feel nothing. No pulse. I felt around, and grabbed her wrist. Again, no pulse. I concluded that she was dead. For a second, I panicked, and then I realized I was glad. I was glad I wouldn't have to deal with my drunk mother who job hopped. I felt awful for being glad. I was pissed at myself for not caring, and I was pissed at her for dying.
I heard an ambulance. It was ironic, just getting out of the hospital, to be in a severe crash, and for the ambulance to take ten minutes to get to the wreck. We weren't even a mile down the road. My mother was rushed off, as was I, but not to the same places. She went straight to the morgue, and I went straight to the ER. The worst of the damage was just the cut on my arm, which was fixed up with a few stitches, other than that, I was fine.
The next day, the same doctor from my previous visit walked in.
"I have some... bad news for you." he said with a very sober expression.
"I know. My mother is dead. I checked her pulse after the wreck." I said stoically.
"You seem quite... cold about this bewildering accident. Are you all right?"
"Have I ever openly shown you my emotions?" I retorted, thinking of all the blood that was spattered around the car.
"Well... no but..." the doctor was obviously trying to think of a time when I had shown him my true emotions, which I never have.
"I think the best thing you could do to help me is to leave. Ok?" I asked him. He just nodded in response, and left the room. I began grinning. I had a new sense of freedom wash over me. My mother was gone, I had no close relatives left to take me in, I could finally be free! Sure, I was still a minor, but I could live on my own, right? I was old enough for a job, after all. I got up from the chair hospital bed where they had been giving me the stitches not but a few hours before, anesthesia just wearing off, and began to walk towards the door. I checked my face really quick, and made sure I wasn't smiling, and grabbing my bag before I opened the door to reveal the doctor talking to a family. This family consisted of one mom, who looked like a chronic cheater, one dad, who looked like a chronic drunk, and one daughter, who looked about fourteen, and was wearing faux-goth clothing and texting.
"Ah, hello." the doctor said as I walked out of the room, running my hand through my thick hair.
"When can I leave?" was all I said, closing the door behind me.
"Well... you have to sign a few papers, and then you can move in with this lovely family here." the doctor responded, a smile threatening to curl out of his thin lips.
"What?! Don't tell me I have to go through that again!" I said, leaning back against the wall and moving my hand to my face.
"He was put in a home once before. Something to do with his mother in rehab. Didn't work out well." the doctor explained to the family, leaving out a whole lot of details.
"It's ok honey," the woman said through a very plastic looking smile, "we won't hurt you."
I grimaced at her and her group, "You think it's hurt that I'm worried about? Look at these scars, and ask me if I am afraid of pain of all things! It is not pain that I am 'afraid' of, as you seem to phrase it, but the drugs, the alcohol, the nights of wondering if I will be fed or not! Your ignorance is angering, no, saddening." I spat at them, meaning every word. The woman stood aghast, obviously not sure what to think; of my rant, or of my scars.
"Well at least someone has the guts to try..." the daughter murmured, not looking up from her cell phone, obviously in regard of my scars.
Now I must admit, I overreacted to this remark.
"You think this is a joke!?" I was about to begin another tirade, and then the doctor put his hand on my shoulder, and shook his head. I snapped out of the vehement hallow I had fallen into, and shook myself back into my senses.
"I... I apologize for my... outburst..." I muttered, giving the rush time to wear off before I spoke any more.
"Well, at least he has some manners." the man remarked, obviously jabbing at his daughter. She just ignored him.

* * *

My heart was still racing as they led me out of the hospital, and to their car.
"Would it be ok if we could run to my hou- I mean, my old house to pick up a few of my things?" I asked as I climbed into the back seat of their ugly silver SUV.
"Of course, how could someone your age not go back for their items?" the father said, turning the key.
"Thanks, it's just down the road if you take a left." I said, clicking the buckle of the seat belt into the seat. The man seemed to take no notice of my words, and began to drive out of the hospital. Proving my previous statement wrong, he turned left. A few minutes later, we were close to my road.
"Take the next road on the right," I directed, "and then look for house number three-four-seven."
He followed my directions, and soon I was climbing out of their SUV, and removing my house key from my pocket. I opened up the front door, and entered what was now my house. First stop for me, was the kitchen, where there was a bowl of cash, which I quickly scooped up and folded into my wallet. I then moved to my late mother's room, and plundered her room for cash. Every stray coin and bill ended up in my wallet, and my grandfather's old military revolver ended up in my bag. I slipped into my dark room, and grabbed my leather case of knives and razors. A quick glance around my room revealed the only other utensils I wanted; a pack of cigarettes, a pack of lighters, and a book. The book was one of my favorites, although an older one, it was a great read for me. Before I left, I was also sure to grab a pair of shoes.
As I was exiting the house, I remembered to grab my jacket, a longer one, not long enough to be a trench coat, but it was long and dark, and it had many buckles and spikes on it, it had cost me a small fortune to get it, and add the desired elements. I slid the jacket on, and left the house, locking it back up. As I reentered the SUV, I was inquired on my exploits.
"So what all did you grab?" the mother asked me.
"Just some of my personal possessions and some cash." I responded, rolling a razor blade across my knuckles in a choppy demonic looking way. The daughter was just staring at the blade, mesmerized. I noticed her longing for the sharp object, and tossed it to her. Her eyes lit up as she caught the single object that had kept my sanity for several years, the object that had brought much blood to stain my clothing and carpet, the object that had nearly killed me about a day before. The remainder of the drive was astonishingly quiet.
We finally reached their house, a ranch style home that was set relatively far off the road in a wooded area. There did appear to be a good bit of privacy, which was nice for me. When the car pulled into the carport, I got a better look at how the house was. The windows were quite foggy with what could be dirt, and the door was now a light brown stain instead of the most likely sterile white.
"So... you have a name?" the father asked.
"Wait... you really didn't check the papers?" I asked him back, which he just kind of shrugged off. They seemed like an odd family. I was let into the house, and I realized it was almost worse on the inside than on the outside. Mud and dog shit. The place was a wreck, it was terrible how much junk they had laying around. Probably years of mail stacked up on the dinner table, clothing, dirty and clean, appeared to have been tossed around by a dog or maybe a person. I was led by the daughter to the room that would be mine, and it wasn't in the best of shape itself. The carpets were a light tan with many stains and tears, the bed was a mattress on some wooden pegs, and the nightstand was extremely chipped. Not to mention the busted Sheetrock and pale blue walls. The walls were definitely fixable, the bed maybe, but not the carpet. The nightstand, I could care less about. Other than what I have already mentioned, the room was empty. I set my bag down, and looked about for what I had to work with. Nothing for decorating in my bag. I went to the closet and looked about. Empty except for sheets, which was fine with me. Sheets were exactly what I was looking for, in particularly, black ones. I dug through a bit, and managed to fix up some dark green sheets to the walls. It wasn't as good as black, but it was good enough. I didn't take time to unpack, since I didn't plan on staying long, but I did pull out my collection of razors and knives, and gave it a good look before putting it back in my bag, and exiting the room. I walked out of the house with surprisingly no questions asked, and began to walk down the driveway. And then I realized just how much of a toll the wreck had taken on me, I was aching all over. I promptly turned around, and headed back inside, understanding my need for rest.
When I awoke from a nap in my small chunk of solitude, I could hear a commotion outside of my room, presumably in the living room. I cracked open the door, and began to peek through the crack towards the living room. The moment I had the door cracked, I could hear the commotion slightly better, solid thunks, and crying out, maybe with weeping behind it. And snoring. I crept out of the room, so I could hopefully get a better look. When I poked my head out of the hall, and looked into the living room, I realized why there was so much noise. The realization was a kind of smack in the face like most obvious things. I should have known, it should have been obvious, but I guess I was a little too optimistic for once. My disappointingly extraneous optimism also caused me to attempt to settle in, not cool. Anyway, I crept down the hall, until I had a clear view. It was honestly not as bad as I was expecting, but it was still bad enough. What I saw, was a drunken... hell, drunks aren't even humans. I saw the drunken father, beating his daughter. Honestly quite common in today's society, but still not so nice of a place to live when your mental health is questioned already. I watched his arm fly down, and I heard a solid thunk, and maybe even a crack. He had hit his daughter in the back, and perhaps broken her spine, but I wasn't sure. I was slightly aghast and slightly relieved at the sight. I was relieved at how it wasn't as nearly a serious beating as it could be, but I was aghast by the fact that he was an abuser. I despise abusers. Suddenly, he looked my way, and I knew my cover was blown.
"Come out, boy. The shadows ain't no good at hiding you!" he shouted at me, taking another slug from his bottle of whiskey. I wasn't sure what to do, so I just walked into the room, and noticed the passed out mother on the couch.
"Bastard." was all I muttered at the abuser. He scoffed at me, but none of what he said really sunk in, I just felt myself growing cold. I let all senses of morals and difference between right and wrong flow out of my body, and into the ground. I walked towards the man, my fists clenching and unclenching with my heartbeat. I heard a whimper from the floor.
"Shut up, bitch!" he shouted as he kicked the quivering shape that could only be his daughter. I knew what would happen, and I knew it would not turn out well for me, but I did not care. I started walking, and then picked up my pace until I dove atop the bastard, putting all my weight into hitting him flat in the chest. He flew a lot farther than I expected, but the extent of his intoxication made any pain from the impact irrelevant to him. He glared at me through his beady eyes, and snatched me up off the ground, and pulled his fist back. Slow motion adrenaline kicking in, I watched as his muscles drew back, and shot forward, I watched as the huge fist flew towards me, and into my chest. I felt my sternum crack, and the impact threw me from his grip, and several feet across the room. I felt my back collide with the wall, almost simultaneously followed by the back of my head, and I was out cold.

* * *

It was darkness... pure darkness. For a moment, I began to believe it was the afterlife, but then I pinpointed the dreamlike qualities that floated in the air around me. It was like floating in a pool of water, effortless and slightly dizzying, but there appeared to be no water around. There appeared to be nothing around. Suddenly, a huge flash of light began flying towards me from the horizon. I wanted to flee, to eternally float in the darkness, but the light collided with me, and shot me into a subway car. I recognized this subway, it was the subway that I took when I wanted to get to basically anywhere in town. This particular incident appeared to be a flashback.
I sat with my head down and a paper in my lap. I can't really recall what was in the paper. I heard a commotion from the train car next to mine, since I was sitting in the seat nearest to it. The foggy glass gave way, and I saw red splatter milliseconds before I heard a gunshot. The next few seconds were an odd mish-mash of confusion, with random intervals of slow motion. Normal here, I ducked down under the steel wall, expecting the subsequent bullet to pass through the victim's head, and into my car. Slow motion, I rolled to the door, and dove through, expecting less flying lead on the other side, since the kill-shot had already been fired. The next moment, was viewed incredibly fast. A bullet whizzed past me, but I couldn't hear the gunshot over the shrieking of the subway breaks. I dove for cover before a bullet whizzed into a pole I had just dove past, and ricocheted around the car several times over, before shooting out of it, and embedding itself in the concrete tunnels. I began to run, and just as I was behind a man, a bullet smashed his head. All the details of this event blurred afterward, but I remember emerging from the subway soaked in blood. Suddenly I shot back, to memories that I had locked away, and forgotten about.
I was standing in a cemetery, tears running down my face, and collecting on the formal suite, perfect for a funeral. I was aged about six. My mother, standing by and holding my hand, was a completely different person than described earlier. She was compassionate, caring, and in all aspects, a good mother. She was a wreck. Her makeup running down her face under her black veil. At this point, I realized we were once wealthy. The casket had real gold intricate inlets, and the burial procession was very professional. At this point, memories were unlocked. My mother had very quickly degraded into the addict she was modern. She began with classy wine, but soon downgraded to narcotics and stronger doses of alcohol, like vodka. With her drinking away her sorrows, she also drank away all of our money. In and out of rehab, she somehow managed to get a job enough to keep me alive. A sudden flash of light brought me back to fifth grade.
A fist smashed into my cheek, I felt blood well up where my tooth had just punctured my cheek. I reeled from the shot, but soon regained my balance, and stood back up, defiantly.
"You little fagot," the attacker remarked as he threw another punch, tearing another hole in my destroyed clothing. I must explain here, my hair was quite long at this point, as neither me nor my mother had the money to cut it, and any pair of scissors we had were not sharp enough. Before I knew it, there were two boys holding me by the armpits as the original offender beat me. I felt my eyes water, but not from pain, but from sadness. I felt sorry, not for myself, but my attackers. They were so shallow, how could they not understand? Why wouldn't they even try to understand? They were so... normal. He saw a tear roll down my cheek. Mind you, children are the cruelest of creatures, he beat me more for it. The more he beat me, the more my eyes would water, and the more I began to hate him. If I had fought back, I would have disturbed the very moment that made me. I realized that the pain didn't hurt anymore, but felt good. I felt my head being picked up by the assailant. I began to smile. I felt it wasn't a normal smile, but an extremely wild one. Blood welled out of my nose, and my eyes were bruised. I went from smiling to laughing, and then cackling. They stared. I dried my eyes on my shirt, regained my composure for a second, and busted again.
"What the hell are you laughing at, dick head?" the bully murmured, staring at me in obvious shock.
"You shouldn't show your emotions so much 'dick head'," I responded, "It might get you hurt." In his moment of weakness, I slipped out from his friends, and tackled him to the ground.
"You must feel it, feel the hurt, feel the joy, feel the exuberance of extreme pain!" I grinned as I beat him. I began clawing at his eyes, and nearly had one where I could remove it before his startled friends intervened. They grabbed me off of him, and I cackled more. That moment was truly what made me. That moment taught me no fear, that moment taught me that pain is not something to fear, or even embrace, but to enjoy. Another flash of light brought me back a few years. Back home.
"Mom?" I said as I walked into our small apartment. It was a huge adjustment from the several thousand square foot house we used to live in, but I was grateful for it. This moment was one of the many times my mother had just finished rehab. I heard her mumbling from the bathroom, so went to where she was.
"I can't... I won't... just once... only once, then I will be done... only one more..." she murmured. I saw the syringe in her hand.
"Mom, no." I said calmly, gently pushing the syringe away from her wrist.
"No... no... NO?!" she shouted, "
No one gets between me and what I want!"
She hit me. My face stung at the sudden strike from my mother. It was the first time she had ever hit me, and it hurt worse than anything that I had ever felt. Not in the physical sense, but the emotional one. A loved one had hit me, the only loved one I had left, had hit me. That moment became a trend, for her to slap me anytime I stood between her and what she wanted. Another final flash of light brought me back to the land of the living.

* * *

I awoke from my enlightening recollection of less than half of my tragedies, but it was enough. I realized what must be done. Somehow I had ended up back in my darkened room, but with one of the sheets torn down to allow me to be bathed in sunlight. I stood from the bed with an aura of finality about me, and I grabbed a pen and paper, and scribbled a very honest note down, and placed it where someone would hopefully find it. I grabbed my bag, where my blades where, and opened the window, jumping out, and walking away.