I hate everything, with a hatred that runs deeper than anything you could ever imagine. Nothing makes sense anymore. She says, “get out of the car,” then she hits me. She tries to start the engine and all I do is grab the key. She punches me again. I sit there. I let her. She keeps slapping and pushing and clawing at me with her nails. The skin on my face is ripped to shreds. I don’t let her have the keys. I can’t.
Doesn’t matter, I’ve done the same thing to him. She’s done the same thing to me. I never meant to fuck up your engagement. Let me tackle him on the ground and pull out my gun, waving it in front of everyone’s face while I grab my crotch. It makes me a man. Look at me, being a man on an autopsy table. The doctor cuts me open and sees why I died, but I take it like a man, I’ve still got my pride because I’m dead and you are all still alive. That makes me better than you somehow. I don’t express my true opinions because I’m so scared at what might happen. I never was able to enjoy my childhood because I wasn’t allowed too. I had to grow in a serious situation. I’m still figuring all that out and it hurts to think about sometimes.
I remember being yelled at a lot. Maybe that’s why I like the quiet so much. I hate it when things are too loud. I guess I just associate loud sounds with pain and unhappiness. Like screaming. I wonder if getting punched and verbally abused when I was younger actually did anything to me. I had to bear it, it was my brother perpetrating the crime. Actually, what occurred was probably not illegal. More my parents failing than his own fault, he was younger then.
I wonder what I thought back then, I wonder how I managed? I’m glad I don’t have to go back to that. You could really get someone hurt right now. I can actually finally effect people’s lives and that idea has been fucking with me beyond anything that I could ever imagine. Not only do I have to think of myself, I’ve got to think for a lot of other people. Those kids. Those kids could be having the same experience I had and that hurts me. Thinking that some kid is hiding in his closet hoping his abuser doesn’t hear him really makes me want to help them. Childhood should be fun and full of good memories, you shouldn’t want to block out your entire childhood. But who can you blame? Your parents? Yourself? I’m not sure.
But what I do know is this, people don’t always change, it’s very hard to do that. Hope, despair, they are what make life, life. That makes change almost impossible, the fact that extreme emotions guide every little move we make. Maybe you like to believe they don’t, but they do. Everything you do is based on some stupid emotion you had at that moment.
Why does any of this stupid shit matter? I ask myself that often and am still unsure. Venting just feels good and I don’t have anyone so, sadly, this is best I can do, this is me screaming at the top of my lungs for some attention, yelling for someone to care about me the way I want. This is me, so consumed with the moment that I wish I could die.
Tomorrow, this will no longer be the truest thing I have ever written.
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