Ever since I was young thee only emotion I learned was hatred, it was always there, waiting for me to grab a hold of it, wanting desperately to consume me. And it did, but I am still searching for the answers. Why the world is so cruel, or why God has such a sick sense of humor? Hi my name is Kyle. Well, I suppose I should start with my story. The story of an idiot.

I was born in 1997 on March 15. My mother for some idiotic reason kept referring to me as a Chinese toy due to the noise I made as a child; apparently I was not as loud as the other kids, so I made very low noise. As far as I remember, until I was five everything was how it was supposed to be. Then all gradually came crushing down. I tried to communicate with kids my age, but somehow I ended up being beaten or abused by them. I did not even know I was wronged until many years later. I used to be so clueless that I ended up walking into a wall and hitting my head in the process. I still have bumps on my head from those; there are three of them, positioned somewhat like goat horns. Barely visible, because they are always hidden behind my hair. I always felt a strong sense of justice, if someone wronged me I would definitely return the favor. When a Russian kid of my age hit me on the head with a wooden brick, I did not hesitate; I took the brick in my hand and smashed it on his skull. I did it in front of teachers and parents, they wanted to punish me, but after I told my reason my mother insisted that I did the right thing and we left without any trouble. Every kid in daycare was wary of me; one child’s parent specifically threatened me not to mistreat her daughter, who I did not even meet! I tried my best to blend in with the people surrounding me, but my attempts were rather fruitless. I ended up staying in daycare for year longer than expected, which caused me to be year older than many of my classmates when I started school. Speaking of going to school, that’s where the problems began. My father wanted me to be enrolled in elite elementary school whose main qualification was the proficiency in Russian language. While I knew the language, I disliked it, so I answered the questions in Kirgiz. My mother even lied to the principal about the location of my home. She even made me memorize countless things that I found utterly irrelevant. She insisted they were going to be tested. I did not care. There was a school right next to our house and I wanted to attend it instead. But in my parents opinion I would not be able to progress in such a common school. When the elite school rejected me was the first time when I saw what kind of person my father truly was. He was so angry that he cried out at me with an angry expression I have never seen before. He dropped me and mom off somewhere and made us walk home. Mom angrily berated me for my inability to fulfill her expectations and told me to apologize to my father in professional manner, even telling me to use the specific words. I did just like she told me, and all seemed well. I was back in my father’s embrace, I was happy.

That happiness did not last long. In the school, in math class we got homework on solving problems involving x values. I did not understand it, and mom restating the same thing about five times did not help. She was getting angry. Then dad came home. He was visibly tired. He tried to help me with equations, but after I could not understand it, he completely lost his patience. He grabbed my hand, and squeezed it hard until his nails were piercing my flesh and wrote the answer to the first problem using my hand. When I still did not understand, he punched me for the first time. It hurt, and then he demanded that I look at the equation again. He could not tolerate that his only son could not understand such concepts. When I failed again, he punched me hard in the stomach, causing my eyes to water from sheer pain. This kept going on for dozen more punches until I no longer felt my body, then he suddenly stopped and stormed out of the room. My mom was terrified, but she did not try to stop him, in fact in my eyes it seemed like she was encouraging him. Then he loudly shouted out:” GOD, WHY? Why did you give me such a dumb son! ” He kept going like that until it was midnight, and after completely exhausting himself fell asleep. After that I tried to sleep, but I could not, I was terrified of dad. Terrified if he will go on a rampage again. Next day I was walking back from school I reflected what exactly have I done wrong? Why can’t I understand it?

In my school there was a girl I had crush on. Her name was Nazerke Shingiskhan. I never cared about the person’s appearance, but I was attracted by her diligence and the ability to do the classwork on a level better than I did. I admired her and tried my hardest to become just as good as her. Every attempt I tried at communicating with her was somewhat of a failure, I could not come up with any topic to talk about other than school, which you know is boring. So she did not see me at all. In her eyes I was just another classmate who was too curious for his own good.

Two months after the incident with the equations, my father got mad at me yet again. The reason being that I received a poor mark on my quiz and was unable to understand my mistake. He started to punch me yet again, then he asked mom to give him the belt on my uniform. She blindly obeyed. Almost like she was enjoying the show. Then he took the belt and then proceeded to whip me with it. I don’t think I will ever forget that stinging sensation of my flesh being torn. Then when I was all but unconscious, he told me to put on a coat and boots and get out of the house. It was fall and it was raining. When I did not want to leave the house, dad like a madman chased me; I was running as if I was a prey running from a carnivore. I never thought he was so fast, he had an injury on his right leg that almost led it to being amputated. The injury was caused by infection from scissors he stepped on when he was young. His parents disregarded it until it was almost too late. Apparently, due to complication with surgery, his right leg lost almost all of its muscle mass, resulting in it looking rather bony compared to his healthy left leg. Right leg also was for some reason an inch longer than his left, resulting in him limping while walking. Yet he was so fast. I desperately ran, and then he was still. He went back in the house. I had a crazy idea of sneaking into the basement and waiting until dad left the house, but instead I went to my house and knocked the door. Dad opened the door. None said anything. Night was spent with me shivering from terror. I was dreaming of my father chasing me.

During first grade, I really liked my teacher. She however had rather weird opinion of me. I used to watch a cartoon about robots, and when I told her seriously that I one day would like to build such robots, she immediately contacted mom, from whom I received a harsh scolding. The teacher did treat me rather favorably compared to other students because I was a naturally serious person. I made myself have a serious look at life in order to make sure I don’t make mistakes that would lead me to be punished. I stopped smiling near people. The teacher did not know much about me, but because I was one of her top students, she had many one on one conversation with me. As far as the subjects were concerned, I excelled in every subject except ironically in my native language-Kirgiz. The worst part was memorizing poetry which made me wonder whether poets like torturing students by making them memorize songs. For my classmates it was not much of a problem, but for me it was a nightmare. My mom always had to help me memorize the lines and then I had another issue. Apparently I had a severe case of stage fright causing me to forget the most important things and end up with nonsense.

As for my family, few months later there was another incident. I received another beating. That was the first time I was called a name. My father called me Satan. He kept beating me. For some reason when he punched me my body did not receive any bruise marks. He shouted out that it was the proof I was not human. He kept punching me, my face, arms, body, back; I don’t think he was holding back. The funny thing was he was crying while I could not shed a single tear. He said this was another sign I was the Satan and then dragged me to his car. He wanted to take me to a faraway place and leave me there. When I was inside the car, dad pressed on the gas pedal. At that moment mom opened the door at my side of the car, she tried to quickly drag me out of it, but dad already pressed the gas. My body was out, but my right leg ended up being run over by a car. Funny thing, I did not feel a thing. No pain. I could stand on that leg afterwards. Dad got out of the car. He took a look at my leg, and seeing that it was not damaged, he for some reason was in a crying moody mood. I only had few scratches after mom dragged me out of the car because I landed on the asphalt. We went back inside the house. Mom put some ointment on my scratches, while dad was screaming in the bathroom:” GOD! Why did you give me a Satan? What did I do to deserve this? ” that was all I could comprehend, everything else was a mumbo jumbo mixed with weeping sounds. At night, I was thinking of solution to my dilemma, but the only thing I felt was hatred. Next day, when I examined my body there were no bruises on it somehow. Yet, I couldn’t deny that there was something very hot in my chest that wanted to destroy. That was the time I truly met HATRED. I wanted to inflict the same suffering my dad inflicted on me upon him. I wanted to make him suffer, but I was too weak, it was hopeless dream. Next month was quiet, so I forgot about that urge.

During my first seven years of my life I noticed that every one of my cousins had a sibling, so I felt left out because I was the only single child. So I asked my mom to have a child. She did. But my father did not want an addition to the family. He demanded that mom abort my sibling. She told me about that, I was horrified. My sibling was already six months alive, and he would be born after three months, it would be murder. My father wanted to take away the only friend I could ever have. I told mom, no I insisted to her to not get rid of my sibling. She agreed.

During the summer I was sent to the country side where my paternal family and paternal grandparents lived. I hated it. All of them were smelly and had absolutely no sense of hygiene. Every day there was a shooting star. The only wish I had was to have a sibling. I was worried. Then came the phone call. My younger brother was born. I did not know the gender of my sibling beforehand, so I assumed it would be sister, so I was surprised to have a brother. He had some complications with lack of oxygen, so he was placed in breathing machine.

When I came back from the country side, I greeted my mom and brother. My brother was so tiny; I could lift him up effortlessly. When we got home, we met the members of my maternal family. Then came the unpleasant surprise. When mom opened her drawer she found all her underwear cut with scissors into pieces, they just fell on the floor. Everyone was horrified. Turns out my father was having an affair with my mother’s niece. The fact caused her to break down and cry. We immediately moved in with mom’s sister. There we spent half of the summer. It was boring. I got used to referring to my father by his first name. I discussed the events with my contemporary cousin. She was rather naïve but kind, in a way complete opposite of me. We lived in a semi religious community. My mom was convinced that someone was putting death curse on her by cutting her underwear. She suspected her niece to be using black magic on her and my brother in order to kill them. I did not know what to believe. She went to many exorcists who tried to help her, and according to them they removed seven death curses made by her niece. To make the matters worse, at times when mom was cursed she would have health problems and I thought she would die. For a time I lost my rational thinking, so I followed with the superstition. I was worried my father would chase us, but he didn’t. He stayed at old house. We on the other hand moved to my maternal uncle’s house. My mom has twelve siblings, and this particular uncle was the boss of the family, at least I saw him as such. He terrified me, but I respected him immensely. It was the boss who gave me the ultimate advice. I did not have any distinguishing talent unlike many of the family members of my generation. He told me: “Even without a talent you can succeed further than any person with talent if you keep trying and never give up.” He was one smart boss.

For some weird reason mom started to talk to dad again, they met again and again. My brother was given a name I chose, and my father wanted to name him in a ridiculous fashion which literally meant a “Bow” used for arrows. The name was not changed. I did not want the family to go back together, I was too afraid of dad, but mom insisted that I need a father and when I disagreed she shouted at me to shut up and do what she tells me to do. I had no choice but to obey. By the way, apparently mom told dad that I referred to him by first name basis. It was obvious because dad threatened to kill me if I ever use his first name.

So we were back at our old house. Dad insisted he was a changed man, and everyone except me completely believed him. Apparently mom did not tell her family that we were living with dad again, because on Christmas party there was an awkward incident where her entire family walked into the house, but after seeing my father everyone frowned and left.

This year was my second grade. During the time when I was at my uncle’s house I attended the school there, and did horribly. Then when we went back, I found out I was behind on a lot of materials which I had to catch up on. There was an extremely good student whom I considered my rival. After we both forgot our homework and had to do a skit in front of the class we bonded. Now my rival was my best friend, or so I thought at the time. His name was Sagi. There was also a bully in class who grew to love to torture me by making me slip, or making me fall. There was a rumor that he pushed two of his classmates towards a moving car, almost killing them. One day he tripped me, it was the last stroke. I grabbed the broom that was placed by the wall by cleaner person and started to chase the bully with it, while swinging the broom like a weapon. For some reason my temper grew to become quite a problem. I was afraid I was going to become just like my father. I settled the matter with the bully when we both punched each other, I punched harder, he had tears in his eyes, I felt sorry for him, and so I talked to him. Afterwards, somehow we became friends. His name was Anwar.

When mom was at work I was in charge of watching over my brother. He looked so fragile. I accidently dropped him few times when he slipped from my grasp. One time it happened when I was giving him a bath. Ever since then he was scared of water.

My father’s beatings never completely stopped. One time he took me towards a very distant river because I could not understand a subject from language class. He told me he does not need a dumb son. It was cold, but fortunately we came back home. I was used to dad’s beatings, but my fear of him kept growing. Mom gave me a share of beatings as well, but she was weak, my body could withstand her blows, however my father was another business. Unknown to me, at this time my dad has become quite suicidal. He showed signs of detachment and was far less violent. I thought he was trying to improve. Turns out that was not the case. One night when I was sleeping on my bed, my mom woke me up and dragged me towards the incomplete building that towered above the site. There was my dad; he was holding the end of some kind of rope made of wire. He had tied it tightly to the top of the metal of the building and underneath it was a noose. He was trying to hang himself. I and mom managed to stop him and get him home, but shortly he escaped. He did not try to kill himself again. Apparently he did that due to being drunk and being unable to decide whether to stay with mom or with the woman he has been having affair with. I found the reason to be stupid. In order to prevent myself from becoming like my father, I tried to seal away most of my emotions, leaving only rational thinking and hatred.

Mom made me participate in many clubs and sports since I was young, so I traveled alone across the city on busses since I was seven. Mom thought having me go through the city unsupervised without a phone was a good idea. One day I took the wrong bus, I ended up in the middle of nowhere. Somehow I ended up home after two hours. When I opened the door, I found mom on the phone teary eyed contacting the police, and when she saw me she was surprised I came back safe. I just said that I was tired and went to sleep. My mom told me many things about organ traffickers who kidnapped children, took their organs, filled their bodies with sand, and left them on streets. I did not want to be the next victim, so I always carried a stick and kept looking over my back to see if anyone was following me. Every night I dreamed that I was being chased by the organ traffickers. The clubs were not without their agonies. I carried three backpacks on my back due to having too many clubs. My teacher called me a truck loader kid due to this. I had numerous conflicts with members of my clubs, resulting in me getting two black eyes for two years in a row, both on my birthday. Ironically.

When a new elite school opened, my mom made me go there. My old teacher did not take it well. When mom sent her a vase to thank her for teaching me, my teacher smashed the vase and according to the rumors cried for two weeks because of this. Afterwards I never managed to have a decent conversation with her again.

At the new school, all of the teachers were extremely strict, and by far the worst was the teacher of Kirgiz language. I think now that she may have been a sadist for she watched students crying with a creepy smile on her face. She made so many tirades in class that one day she made me cry. I ran out of her class. By luck I found the principal of the school on the hallway. I told her the entire ordeal. Afterwards the scary teacher never bared her fangs at me. According to my friend, my action caused that teacher to cry. I wasn’t happy about it, but the result was satisfying.

Mom continuously tried unsuccessfully to have dad exorcised. She wanted him back. But apparently nothing is so easy. When the exorcist gave him an advice, he lied about it to mom in order to be able to manipulate her.

This continued on. It was a living fear in every corner. I have learned that my kindness towards stray puppies could be a motive for my father trying to choke me. When I tried to feed them the leftover food, he pounced on me, one hand on my neck. By that time I no longer was afraid. I resigned myself to my fate. Then he let go. Every year there were new puppies, and every winter I would find their decaying corpses. It was rather sad. I once wanted to adopt one but my mother did not allow me to. I highly suspect that it’s met its end.

As for school, my mother always managed to get my hands full. She always said that it was for my own benefit, looking back now I think it’s not a very bright idea to send a kid since he was seven alone to any location he needs to go to. My teachers always called me a “toe-truck boy” because I always had many backpacks from many clubs strapped to my back. The nickname was less than pleasant.

The school life bored me to death, there was nothing interesting. Of course there was a time that I built a sculpture and the teacher liked it so much that he put it on permanent display. I am not sure what was that about, it was just a failed replica of a Christmas tree. It looked more like a cloth hanger.

When I was ten, my mom went too United States for a few months. The months that were spent without her were uneventful. Other than the fact that my dad has no idea how to clean clothes and house, and that his cooking skills were limited. He mostly brought home junk food. I have to admit I became rather fond of sandwiches and burgers. He used to take me to entertainment centers and leave me there, while he went somewhere else. Apparently he went to visit his “girlfriends”, and I only found out later. I wasn’t really scared of being alone; I actually became quite fond of it. Of course I always wondered why dad left me for five hours in place filled with bunch of people, without any way of contacting him. Well I always felt relieved when finally it was the time to go home.

After several months, mom returned. Apparently US left a big impression on her. She talked endlessly about it. She went to Boston. She bought so many types of candy, but unfortunately the morning she came in I felt sick so I could not taste them. Then my relatives came by and all the candy was quickly nonexistent. I got a toy plane from mom that was powered by battery and could fly. Sadly I never flew it because I destroyed it. Speaking of which, apparently it is an ability from my father’s side of the family. Anything we touch could potentially be irreparably destroyed. My uncle destroyed my electric toy cars, my father smashed a wooden chair into pieces by punching it, and I ended up causing a long trail of destruction myself. Well that I know of at least.

The relationship between mom and dad just got worse. They had fights all the time, and sometimes I would get struck in the middle. I seriously did not want to grow up to become like them. At school I tried to force myself to have a crush on a girl, but failed miserably. There was just nothing attractive about other human beings in my point of view. I would rather just read a romantic book. Besides the personalities of the girls I met justified the saying not to judge a book by its cover. If they looked attractive, I noticed that their personalities were impossible to deal with.

When I was twelve, mom went to US again. When she came back she had a job secured and wanted to take me and my brother there. The motif was obvious- she wanted to run away from dad.

She was successful. Yet, before we left dad used to interrogate mom from his suspicion that she would be leaving him. He did it in a rather violent way that left my mother a sobbing wreck for the rest of the day. I wasn’t really sure what was going on. I tried to get a grasp of the reality, but it always seemed to elude me.

My puberty kicked in when I was twelve, so the hormones in my body were destabilized, making me think all kind of thoughts ranging from philosophical ideas to thinking about human body parts. More often than not I ended up fantasizing my personal paradise, but I always ended up in a land colored crimson from blood. That’s just the peaches. Whenever I felt anxiety or pain, I would imagine how it would feel like to kill everyone in my life. The only thing preventing me from succumbing to that temptation was that I ended up feeling some sort of connection to my brother. I wanted so much to have him live and exist, and killing everyone in my life seemed rather unfathomable if it meant to have him stop existing.

Also, at this time I realized that I could hear voices in my head that would occasionally take over my body. Gradually I started having conversations with them. I could not get rid of them or control them, but I could communicate to them, ask for advice and have them take over my body whenever I was not emotionally capable of doing so myself. They referred to me as the original personality, while identifying each other as numbers, being 2 and 3 respectively. Of course they chose their own names, 2 chose to call him with my name spelled backwards, while 3 chose a name that could be translated as Dragon.

Because of my complicated feelings or lack of thereof, I couldn’t communicate well with the people my age, so I was left in the company of my alters in order to fill the void.

The alters were in a sense an extension of me, but not me. 2 was rather detached from reality and he could not understand basic human emotions, appearing quite insensitive and analytic to certain topics. 3 on the other hand was a walking volcano of anger. More than once he has gotten me into trouble by instigating a fight at my school which left me to apologize for his actions. As he is technically me, I felt some degree of guilt and humiliation for his actions but I did realize that I had no control over him once his temper has been triggered.

Mother succeeded in taking me and my brother to US. Of course she was against taking me with her considering she was afraid I would grow up to be like my father, the possibility she wanted to avoid. She was comfortable with just taking my brother. That was the first hint that she preferred my younger brother over me.

We went on a plane. We ended up in Dallas. We lived in a two room apartment for a while. I started attending Frankford Middle School. Because of my age I ended up going to seventh grade instead of sixth grade. My brother went to kindergarten and later the elementary school.

The middle school times were……. The worst years of my life. Not only I could not understand a thing, but my teachers thought that I was a violent and autistic person. More than once they called mom and had her give me an endless lecture on how wrong I was about everything. The worst part is, apparently I was physically attractive to men, gay men, which made my experience in middle school even worse. They kept coming from behind me and kept rubbing against my butt or my back, it creeped me out. When I told teachers they dismissed it as if it was a normal thing. Then I found out that in US all sexuality was free, so I had a nervous breakdown. In order to defend myself I shouted at them and started talking in rougher and angrier voice. This did not bode well for me.

At this point I came to despise everything about middle school. They had a psychiatrist evaluate me. I practiced all night how to talk like a normal person. I managed to have them think that I was a normal person by having calm and rational conversation.

I managed to survive the seventh grade. Because I did not understand English well I was enrolled in English Second Language classes. I wanted to exit it. I spent the entirety of the eighth grade trying to get out of the ESL class.

It was time of trial and error. I did some good things, some bad things. Mostly somewhere in the middle. I lost my sense of right and wrong, and I would sometimes pass out from over working myself.

The ninth grade I spent in Shepton High School. During this time mom remarried. It was someone I barely knew. During the summer after ninth grade, we moved in to live in the same house as him. Well everything started out rather rough. He would treat me like crap. I could not predict what he was thinking; he was just as irrational as me.

During high school years he did lose his temper on me, and did beat me when he was drunk. Of course he was almost always drunk, strangely he seemed to be more sane when he was drunk. During my worst moments I wanted to kill him, my mother, and my brother so badly. At the worst moment I came to my brother’s room while he was sleeping, I didn’t know what I would do- strangle him while he sleeps or not. The moment my hand touched his forehead, I felt life in him. I felt that his existence was similar to my own but it was different. Someone who was made of the same material as me, the only person who could possibly understand me because he shared the same flesh and blood as me.

I realized at that moment that I cherisher his life. I couldn’t bring myself to hurt him. I just placed a kiss on his forehead. I realized I valued his life higher than my own, and ever since then I could not bring myself to think of harming him.

As for my step-father, however, things went wrong completely. It seems like he was trying to help me confront my past, but he did it in the worst possible way, by making me remember all the emotions from the past to the point I started crying. I hated him for it. It was almost like he wanted me to feel the pain of having emotions and remembering past, almost as if he was some sort of high level sadist or something.

One time, I made a mistake of going to the bathroom late at night and asked them for toilet paper. Both of them over-reacted. They almost broke up. Mother drove off without me and my brother. Before that she locked herself in her car not allowing me to speak to her. She cursed me, called me a thing that keeps destroying her life; she screamed at me “Why do you always take away my happiness?”

I now understood, despite what she says, she thinks of me the same as my real father, she sees me as a monster, a demon, a devil. My step-father proved that he didn’t care jack squat about me or my brother by referring to us as “her damn kids” in text message mom showed me.

Ever since then I could not love my mother. I learned how to fake emotions, and I convinced everyone that I got better. That I forgave everyone and that I am a kinder person than I was before. The truth is anything but that.

I lost my capacity to feel. During eleventh grade my depression started to get better of me. I started thinking of terminating myself. That’s right, suicide. It started out as harming me, cutting myself, then it almost reached the point I wanted to stab myself in the gut with a knife. But then I realized none really cared whether I lived or died, so that action would be pointless. I chose to live and see what future holds for me.

During this time I started feeling pain in my heart, I kept it a secret from everyone but it seems like this was the cause behind me having very low stamina. I predicted that because of this heart of mine I will not live very long, and every time I drained myself of energy I felt like my heart might stop at that minute. A voice whispered to me that I don’t have a lot of time left, that I must use my time wisely. I had approximately forty years or less left of my life. This is one of the reasons I stopped being suicidal, I am already dying, day by day. So I would like to spend my time better and gain many experiences before I am buried. The fact that I cough up blood whenever I overuse my body is just a confirmation for my eventual end. I don’t have very long left, so I might as well spend my time more enjoyably.

I tried to challenge myself and get better at what I do, which is schoolwork; of course I ended up screwing it up. Because of the failures I could no longer deal with anything; I would end up sulking and crying uncontrollably. Then something interesting occurred- a new alternate personality appeared.

He called himself fourth, and boy he was good at what he does. Work efficiency, human relations, and academics, you name it. But there was a severe flaw to him as well. He could not feel. Nothingness, nothingness, that was what his inside feels like, his heart was as cold as ice, and whenever he was in control of my body it always feels cold. When people touched his hands they were always cold for some reason even during summer days.

After I finished high school I went to college. First semester, I or should I say we screwed it up. I overreacted to my failure and almost lost my will to exist. I was almost convinced that I will live an ordinary uneventful life without accomplishing anything like any normal idiot. I did not want that. The voice whispered again saying I most likely to die from stroke in my fifties. My alternate personalities confirmed it to be true. To my horror, my heart kept overheating and I felt like it was crushed; I could feel that one day it just might stop altogether. I couldn’t ask my biological father for advice- he made another family and had another son. My mother didn’t really care about me; she focused so much on my brother and made sure that he became the best human being he could be. As for me, I was always the black sheep of the family, the one who gets blamed for everything going wrong, it was always me doing something wrong. In a sense I was glad that my lifespan is very short, my mother can keep her “perfect” son and I will just rest in peace. Strangely, she treated him and me rather differently; although she denies it I can see it plainly. She is deliberately avoiding mistakes that made me what I am. That makes me happy and makes me want to puke at the same time. In my eyes he was my replacement. To some degree this made me sad. I quickly chose to ignore them and focus on my own life.

I had to smile and pretend to love my current family, this was the toughest part. After reading many psychology books I became able to fake my emotions quite well. My mother was rather convinced that I was happy in life. Well truth always hurts the most.

I am still convinced about the futility of love or any other emotion, considering I never was capable of exemplifying them without effort. As someone who was called demon ever since childhood, I came to view myself as such. It provided some consolation, after all it stopped me from terminating my own existence. There were many times my so called family has pushed me to nearly kill myself, but part of me that believes itself to be a demon always stubbornly stands back up, and I am grateful for it for doing so.

My mother is worried that I will end up all alone with none to bury me, but I have lived entirety of my life alone, so I am not scared, in fact I am glad I will live the life the way I want to instead of being predefined. As long as it’s by my own choice I will gladly live and die alone. It’s a fitting ending for a demon who desired happiness in human world.

My hand shakes from the terror I feel on the inside. I am worried that I will die one day and none will even bother thinking who I was. I can see their cold eyes watching over me.

Those eyes, those eyes filled with hatred, they may be the reason I lost touch with my own emotions, now an empty shell with nothing on the inside. Yet, the inside is not quiet empty.

When I was younger I desired to be loved, but all I ever got was hatred. By the time I was an adult, dreams of love were as obsolete as soil that covers the graves. There no longer was a point in looking for life. All the good ones were taken. Competition was already over before it even began. I became convinced that I am unlovable in the simplest sense. After all, even the ones who created me, one hated and despised me while the other one blamed my existence for her own mistakes. It really is no wonder that I can’t feel much love for either one of them.

No, I do not wish to help people like my mother wishes, I would rather stick to my egotistic routine that has let me survive this far. After all, selflessness does not pay. So what if I am left alone, so what if life goes on without me, after all, I am just a failure. No matter how hard I try, I couldn’t even understand how the simplest things work. I have given up and un-given up more times than I can count.

I know my mom hates me, while my dad completely forgot about me. Sometimes I wish I could forget them as well. Maybe then I can finally enjoy the world.

A world without answers, that’s the conclusion I came to after pondering what exactly god would want me to learn from life experiences. This world in which my mortal flesh resides in, and is destined to lead a very short life. I know my time is short, but I still would like to leave a spark.

I always wondered what I lacked in comparison to other people. I only found out recently. It was humanity. I definitely lacked it, almost like I was missing an organ. Every day I get blamed for missing it, and I can’t help it, that’s how I was made, and that’s how I will be.

For some reason however, my mother’s words always leave scars on my soul. Although I know her advices were less than useless and obsolete and her wisdom pales in comparison to many people I have met, her words always hurt the most. And I hated it, so much that I wanted to stop caring, but every time I tried I was brought back to reality. The reality I learned to hate with all of my being.

I never wanted to be a smart person or even a successful one. I just wanted to be a normal person, a person who can understand the affairs of human heart, but in cases like this I always regret the fact that I was even born. I wanted love, but received hate, wanted praise but received abandonment, wanted approval but received rejection, wanted to find a purpose but found out there isn’t one.

Because of my poor performance in college I ended up taking summer classes. The sad fact was even if I do well on them my grade point average wouldn’t be as high as I want it to be. Well, it’s not like it matters much. I still have to retake the Computer Science class which I absolutely hate.

As for my humanity-I have finally achieved it. No longer am I plagued by different voices speaking simultaneously, for the most part at least, now all voices speak as one. I still hear whispers and have chit chats but there no longer any takeover of my body while I sleep. I no longer feel empty on the inside. I know my purpose for existence-to create something to leave a lasting legacy.

I still don’t love my parents, and the only person I actually am concerned about would be my brother. After all, everyone starting from my father, then mother, then all the relatives, and friends has abandoned me at some point. Now I feel I owe them nothing.

Like a spark of a flame that shines while consuming the life of air, I shall embrace my anger while it eats away at my lifespan. I would rather lead a short and enjoyable life than a long and painful one.