I entered my house ten years later; the house I spent most of my life in, if I wasn't in school. I could hear loud creaks as my footsteps echoed through the empty house. It was dark, the lights had died long ago. Dust coated the sofa and furniture, traveling down to the window sills. The wooden floor was no longer as sturdy as it once was. It was now volatile, fickle, just impossible to figure when the floor would give in and collapse. The roof was the same, it could fall any moment, and I'd still be there. The place had a morbid aura. It was where I lost everything. There were empty boxes that had been gathered with things that used to fill my home. Everything was empty, it was all put away, just like the souls of my loved ones. But there was one difference. While I could open up the boxes and take out what was stored inside, I could not do the same with my beloveds. They were gone. They were dead. They were a limited, priceless gift from God to me, and I never once treasured them the way they deserved.

 I walked down the empty, barren streets of Virginia. It was a cold January evening. The glistening white and innocent snow reminded me of my past and clueless self. The dark sky disdaining upon my still-existent soul, roaring at me with it's ear-piercing thunder. I remember when I tugged my mother's dress, cowering in fear of lightning. But now I don't do that, I wouldn't care if it struck me; It wouldn't matter, because my existence would not affect this petty world. I don't fear in apparition or silly ghost stories. My heart still beats, but my soul drifted off long ago. Back when I lost my will to live. 

 I remember the times I walked down this very same lane. I remember the bright, sunny blue sky. I remember my laughter and happiness, and all I held close to my heart. But now my heart is dark, and cold. I smile at the thoughts I once had. They'd yell facetious insults in my face, and I'd hide somewhere where my sobs were inaudible to the world. My face would get red, my cheeks turn a bright rosey shade. I was the outcast. They chose me as their victim. But only because I never fought back. I let them kick me, push me, and treat me like trash. I let them use me, then throw me out. 

 They didn't have the ethical morals humanity once had. They didn't understand the pain of always being picked on. And yet they still hung up posters with that read 'no bullying'. They were hypocrites. They presented themselves as kind-hearted, indiscriminate mortals, but when no one was looking, they would turn their backs and reveal their true selves to me. You'd ask me why I let them use me. My past self would answer, 'I'm like their stress ball. When they're angry, mad, or frustrated, they consult me. And I make it better. They throw all their stress at me, so that next day they'll be better."

 I was a tool in this world, a useful one. I let them use me until the end, until I rotted and I was ready to be thrown out. Then they trashed me, the way they'd do with a dull blade that could no longer cut, or like a tarnished cloth, that could no longer be worn. I wasn't a nobody, nor was I a somebody; I was a something. 

I didn't find my pain intriguing. I didn't care, is a way to put it simply. I just let it all happen. I closed my eyes, and felt the blows. I took them one by one, telling myself it was almost over. I walked home every day with a new bruise, and a new reason to want to tear myself apart. But I didn't. I wouldn't let myself become like one of them; the ones who hurt themselves. I take my life as a gift, I treasure it with everything I have. I will not have it pulverized or stepped all over. My skin isn't paper, I don't cut it. My face isn't a mask, I don't hide it. Know this, I will not judge my size, because it isn't a book.  I assert you, my life, it isn't a film, I will not end it. 

I am not weak, although I put myself out to be. I am strong, though no one knows. It may not seem so plausible to you, but it doesn't matter what it seems to you. A plebeian in society I was. I never complained. I was silent always. I did what I was told, and sometimes I'd question myself, 'Who am I really?' and "Why am I doing this?' The world would shun me, I was never given a chance to speak. I was just used. I was a tool, and tools are used, not given chances. I was merely a candle, and when my light was out, they merely replaced me. Like a pen that's ink has run out, I was so.

 I lived by everyone else's jurisdiction, a world where they would always watch me. Their cold stares, which seemed almost timeless, would send shivers down my spine. I would feel aghast, and hesitant about how I should act around them. Should I really care what they think, or should I just ignore their glaring? I would pace myself, walking step by step, looking down. My eyes were glistening those days. When I lost my innocence, and lost my sense of direction in life; when the radiant glow of my eyes had faded, I realized how much I truly regret. 

-Kuenixi