Life, it’s an unusual yet beautiful and valuable thing that is sadly wasted.
Life is the main subject in my thoughts, the flaws, the concepts, the tragedies and the terrors; by terrors I mean the stuff that has happened in my past 18 years of existence that has changed my perspective on life and that is, life fucking sucks. You might think I’m a pessimist but I’m actually a realist, a person who likes to tell the truth and the truth most defiantly is, I hate life.
As I awoke to the sound of chirping birds outside my open window, I looked at the alarm clock as its bright red letters said 6:26am which was a sign for me to get up and make breakfast for mother and father. I know, I don’t call them mom and dad because if I do I get a slap or a black eye if they’re having a bad day. So I got up and headed towards my closet and opened the doors to find a wardrobe mainly consisting of black, black and maybe one piece of colourful clothing, red skinny jeans. So after a while of deliberating what to wear, I finally decided on a Beatles shirt and some black, faded skinnies with some vans that have seen better days and headed downstairs to find my father sitting on his ass watching the football coverage reading a paper.
“Where’s my food you ignorant brat?” my father questioned quite loudly which gives me a shock.
“I’m sorry father, I’ll make you some now” I said quite shyly and bolted into the kitchen and made some bacon and eggs.
As I was done I called mother and father to the dining table to tell them their breakfasts were ready, I’m not allowed to eat with them they just call me a “pig” if I do, so I eat in secret.
“Finally, you have finished it, this better be good” my mother said quite sternly.
After a couple of minutes of awkward silence they finally bit into the bacon.
“WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!” my father bellowed as he spat out the bacon all over me and the table.
“This bacon is too crispy and so are the eggs you’re gonna pay” my mother said angrily as she and my father pushed their chairs back and that bastard I call my father started throwing punches at me.
The rest was a blur really, I never really remember the beatings that well, but I stood up still shaking and realised that they both have left for work or God knows where and left me to bleed on the floor. So I hurriedly ran up the stairs, two at a time and ran to the bathroom to check my bruises.
These ones are gonna be nasty I thought as I applied some concealer that matches my pale complexion and my eyeliner nice and thick, so it covers my black eyes mainly. After that I jumped down the stairs, grabbed my blink-182 bag, filled it with textbooks, picked up my black and red hoodie and left to go to school. A place I also despise. And when I locked the door, gone down the steps, opened the rusty gate, closed it behind me and turned right to go down the street and too school I thought to myself,
When can I get out of here?
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