(c) Death Is Not A Parallel Move. [M]

Title: Death Is Not A Parallel Move.
Rating: M.
Author: Me.
Status: Oneshot.
Warnings: Self-harm, abuse, eating disorder.
Summary/Exerpt: I was the most fragile, the least social and the most affected by him.

Affected by my father.

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I was born the 25th of July 1991, a month early, with nothing missing bar a set of eyebrows. Just a month early but for a while, no more then a few days, they were holding their breath, the doctors that is. If my father was ever really worried, I’ll never know. I stayed in hospital a few weeks, just until I began eating properly, and of course, growing.

Until I began life.

I was born to a couple who never should have married. To a father who makes me doubt love and life.

A father who makes me doubt humanity.

I was born the oldest of three, the most fragile, the least social and the most affected by him.

Affected by my father.

Though I can never be sure, there is serious doubt in my mind that my father has ever loved any of us. He thinks only for himself. He is a pompous fool, an aggressive prick, a brother, a son, a cheater, a manipulator and finally, he is my father. He’s desperate for attention. His temper always wavering on the edge, unleashed onto us, his family, in a second. He’s caused so many tear stained pillows, so many locked doors and heart breaking sobs.

He still does.

I don’t have many memories from when I was a child, which is possibly a good thing. I can hardly remember my mother and father, only snippets available from birth up until around ten or eleven. I’ve got theories as to why, one being that I was simply young and have forgotten, another that I have sub-consciously chosen to forget because I know for a fact my youth was a stressful time for my father.

A terrifying time for us.

The very rare and few scraps of memories I do have only fuel my belief in the second of the two. My mother should have left him, left him as soon as he laid a hand on her, as soon as he laid a hand on me, on my siblings.

On any of us.

She should have left, but she didn’t. She wanted to keep the family together, for us kids, because we needed a father. We needed a stable family life.

Turns out our life was anything but stable, it quickly becoming a topsy-turvy of fights and screams, broken tables and smashed ornaments. I can’t even imagine it any different.

I remember yelling, the wood from our table shattered across the floor, around my mother. I remember times when objects were thrown, hit in the head with a stapler, forced to eat cold uncooked food for being rude. I remember times when he bashed holes into doors, trying to get to my mother. I remember being slammed into the wall as I tried to help her. That’s what I did, what I always did. I never stopped trying to help and she never once thanked me.

I remember death threats and sobbing phone conversations. I remember my mother leaving to get away from him, leaving me with him while he was engulfed with rage. The only memories I have of my childhood are of him. I don’t want that, I don’t want him to steal a time where I should have been carefree and not worrying if I should be hiding on the staircase.

He took my childhood, ripped it away from me, he stole the one thing I was suppose to cherish. Taking the one thing that should mean something, the one thing that now doesn’t.

I was alone, always alone.

For the longest time I had no one, friends would flit past but never stayed. I was bullied and teased, insults thrown at me from complete strangers at a park. I was too shy, too immature, too fat, too ugly. I tried my hardest to change that, eat less, become prettier, maybe change yourself, just to grab a few friends. I had changed, changed what I liked to what they liked, how I dressed to how they dressed. The first two years of high school was a constant change for me, a change of friends, a change of style, and a change of self.

I had tried so hard to fit in that I was even worse off from where I had begun.

I had no one.
I was no one.

I was still fat, still ugly, still boring and still dumb. I knew it, everyone knew it. Nights were spent crying myself to sleep; days spent pretending to be someone I’m not.

Ugly scars littering my skin.
Throat burning from stomach acid.
Suicide attempts.

My father had threatened to kill her; he was going to kill her. So she ran. She ran and left me behind, with him. I was the one he took his angry out on. I was the one who got hurt. So, I was the one who tried to kill themselves in the bathroom that night. It was a pathetic attempt at suicide. Of course I didn’t know that at the time, I wasn’t even sixteen yet and had no idea how those kinds of things worked. I should have taken a few more pills and cut myself just a little deeper.

Then I would have died.
But, I didn’t.

Months passed. I fell head over heals for the most amazing girl to ever walk the earth. I grew skinnier. More scars sliced their way over my flesh. Though, through it all I didn’t want to die, not anymore.

I found my reason for living.
A girl thousands of times more perfect and beautiful than myself.
My only reason.

you deserve a lot of respect for posting something like this.

i hope things have settled down for you now.

<3