Cracks in the Sidewalk
Prologue
His computer responds, the words flowing through him into the keyboard, he begins to feel a rush, perhaps the first time he's felt relief in years
This is my full story, starting from the beginning, as far back as I can remember, in Brooklyn. Consider this, the introduction, being a warning that my story is depressing, upsetting, scary, and, on the whole, not very uplifting. If you are suicidal, self-mutilating, depressed, or just sad, this story will hit home, I promise. I'm writing this to my non-existent audience, to feel like I’m getting SOMETHING off of my chest.
My story is the story of a kid, a boy growing up with what would appear to be a totally normal life, but, dear reader, never judge anything by appearances. This boy copes with death, moving, growing up in a bad neighborhood, being beaten up, witnessing the torture of a helpless animal, seeing his mother’s darkest side, all before he moves from Brooklyn to suburbia two months before his eighth birthday. It is a story of shyness, dorkiness, rejection, and the true face of the American Teenager. This story will show you that nothing is as it seems, and you will question who you are as a person, as well as (hopefully) recognize signs of depression in someone you love. That is the important lesson-the reason I’m writing any of this down to begin with: to stop people from going through the hell that I have lived.
No child should hate who they are, but I do. No child should wonder whether or not his parents love him, but I did. No child should love the feeling of a knife across his skin and the sight of his own blood, but I did. This novel is to teach you exactly how NOT to grow up in America.
This is my full story, starting from the beginning, as far back as I can remember, in Brooklyn. Consider this, the introduction, being a warning that my story is depressing, upsetting, scary, and, on the whole, not very uplifting. If you are suicidal, self-mutilating, depressed, or just sad, this story will hit home, I promise. I'm writing this to my non-existent audience, to feel like I’m getting SOMETHING off of my chest.
My story is the story of a kid, a boy growing up with what would appear to be a totally normal life, but, dear reader, never judge anything by appearances. This boy copes with death, moving, growing up in a bad neighborhood, being beaten up, witnessing the torture of a helpless animal, seeing his mother’s darkest side, all before he moves from Brooklyn to suburbia two months before his eighth birthday. It is a story of shyness, dorkiness, rejection, and the true face of the American Teenager. This story will show you that nothing is as it seems, and you will question who you are as a person, as well as (hopefully) recognize signs of depression in someone you love. That is the important lesson-the reason I’m writing any of this down to begin with: to stop people from going through the hell that I have lived.
No child should hate who they are, but I do. No child should wonder whether or not his parents love him, but I did. No child should love the feeling of a knife across his skin and the sight of his own blood, but I did. This novel is to teach you exactly how NOT to grow up in America.