Behind Closed Doors.

Alex looked over at the personal alarm clock that resided next to his bed, the hands ticking clockwise around the chalk white face. Never stopping to break, even while the world slept and no one was around to watch it. Not that he was doing much sleeping right now.

Alex had a big problem with insomnia. His lack of nutrition and mind that was brimming with the millions of different thoughts, swimming around inside his own bitterly happy world caused him to have a severe lack of sleep. Perhaps it was that all the neglectful thoughts and harsh words, which were channelled into Alex from the people around him, just couldn’t get out. The shouting and screaming from the people who were supposed to care, was the only form of human contact that he was subjected to, and he’d be damned if he let that slip away. But, on the rare occasion when he went to sleep, it was all vented out through his sickening nightmares. He was forced to re-live every word and every slap as his swelling head emptied itself all over the clean pillows. Himself, waking- up dripping with sweat and crying uncontrollably as he recalled his, not so pleasant, dreams.

Still, they were the only thing that reminded Alex, he was still alive.

Stumbling out of bed, Alex crept over to the large, white piece of chipped wood, people so often, called a door. His weight, making creaking noises on the out-of –place floor boards as he stepped along them without care. It’s not like anyone was awake to hear him anyway. Looking at the door he noticed his reflection in the brassy handle, staring back at him with curiosity and disgust in its eyes.

He looked terrible.

His mousy brown hair was thin and greasy from lack of washing and neglect. But as greasy as it was, Alex knew that it would still be stuck out in an unruly fashion, if it was light enough to see. He knew that his green eyes would be watery and supporting suitcases under them from his insomniac ways and that his skin would be paler than that clocks face.

All in all, as much as he hated to admit it, he was neglected by the people he had once depended on.

If it was up to his father, he’d be dead by now, his soul residing with Lucifer in the depths of hell and his body six feet underground. He’d probably have done it himself if he didn’t believe that the mighty Jesus would swoop down from heaven and smite him if he committed such a deadly sin. In his father’s eyes, Alex was less than dirt. Not that he had ever really understood the reason why. There were plenty of people who went to that god-forsaken church of his that were only there for the free tea and fucking biscuits. As much as Alex tried to love his father, tried to see that it was the bibles fault for brainwashing him to think that he was some kind sinful demon that was not worthy to see the light of day; when someone kicked the shit out of you every once in a while, it was just difficult to express compassion for them.

His mother was no better really. What good was it if she showed him a small amount of love and affection when his father wasn’t around, then just threw him back in his prison when she heard his car. Allowed him to believe that she actually cared about him for 10 minutes then just joined his father in abusing him. She was just as selfish and god fearing as he was, only doing it to relieve the guilty conscience that must have been eating her up inside like a parasite. Like maybe if she gave him some food and a wash it would keep her from going to hell. What a small minded woman.

Alex knew that he meant nothing to his parents since the day that he had rejected god from his life. He was just a germ that infected their perfect little lives, disrupted their clean home with his dirty, non-believing ways, and his atheist words. But he couldn’t lie to them and say he wanted to follow in the footsteps of Jesus, those words just wouldn’t come out of his mouth. As far as Alex was concerned it was Jesus’ fault he had to live like this, and if in some parallel universe, he did end up existing. Alex wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of saying that he thought he was real. Because quite clearly, if he was, he needed a good punch for fucking so many peoples lives up.

He resisted the temptation to let tears spill from his eyes. It made him so angry to think about the way his own parents loved god so much more than their own son. But it wasn’t like he could remember a time when anything was different. At least he didn’t have any happy memories, because then his pain would be ten times worse.

Alex let his fingers trace the outline of his dirty, tousled reflection before slouching back to his bed. He couldn’t understand why no one loved him, not that he had every really met anyone apart from his parents, but really, who’s fault was that? He craved people’s attention more than anything. Even if it was bad attention, he needed the human contact so he could keep his sanity intact. His father keeping him locked up in his room, with nothing but a bed, a computer and an old bookcase full of books such as “The Evangelical Way To Life”. Definitely, wasn’t helping to keep him sane. He was going to be off his fucking rocker by the time he was sixteen.

He diverted his thoughts as he saw the computer sitting in the corner of his oh-so familiar room, the creamy edge of the old monitor blending badly with his whiter than white walls. Anyone would think with his white, empty walls and lack of suitable furniture, that he was already mad.

Alex laughed out loud to himself. Mad, yeah right.

But that’s what someone who was crazy would say wasn’t it? That they were normal and sane, then go and cook their cat in the over or something. Sear it in the oven until they could hear it screaming in pain, then laugh manically as it burnt to death.

Alex shook his head. What a stupid mental conversation.

He sighed and made his way over to the computer, slumping down in the wooden chair, which creaked when he leant back. He switched on the machine, and closed his eyes.