Status: About once or twice a week. More if I ever get a break from school. :)
The Damned
Chapter One
Chapter One
Easter's POV
Things went wrong from the second I was born. I'm honestly not trying to be melodramatic, but it really is the truth. Maybe if I start at the beginning it would help?
The world I was born into was hectic, bright, and full of sounds like I'd never heard. Every thought this same thing when they were born, but over time they forgot how their lives began. I'm not that lucky, and the first months of my life will stick with me forever…Quite literally. I'm immortal. I know, I know. I'm weird, a freak, and I should die painfully, right? Yeah, I thought so.
The moment I was born, the room went silent, except for my mother screaming to see her newborn baby.
I started crying, telling everyone I was cold and didn't like it here at all. All that came out were soft, breathless mewls and the terrible feeling of not being able to get enough air into my lungs.
One of the nurses was the first to break the silence. "No, ma'am. It's not okay. I'm sorry for your loss," she said, although I didn't understand her at the time. "It's one of them."
My mother let out a wail that sounded so utterly heartbroken and only served to scare me more than I was. I was handed to a nurse, who held me at arm's length like she was hoping I'd roll out of her arms and die. Sadly, that's probably exactly what she was thinking.
I could hear the doctor talking to my parents, quietly. "I know this isn't strictly…accepted, but if you want to get rid of it, we'd understand. It would be humane. Plus, it's so premature no one would doubt that it was stillborn."
"I want to see my baby," my mother whispered. "Maybe it's not so bad."
"I'll get it," my father volunteered. You could tell he thought I was a lost cause. The nurse gratefully handed me over to my father. I remember looking up at my father; a young, bright-eyed man not long out of high school. He handed me to my poor mother, who was equally young and, if possible, looked even more exhausted.
She flinched, but kept holding me. It was more than anyone else thought I deserved. I was horrible, disgusting, and no one could ever love me. It's my fault I'm like that, I'm told, but how? I don't think I ever had a chance.
I had the clear, paper-thin skin of the premature baby I was, but I knew that was not what was frightening her. I had silver eyes, razor sharp teeth (that would eventually be replaced with more human-like teeth, but they didn't know that at the time), an extremely light body that was not even a pound (even factoring in how premature I was I should have weighed about four times more. My kind are much lighter than humans.), I had small bumps on my back that would grow into inky black wings as I grew (I learned to make them disappear for hours at a time as I got older), and a long, muscular body that shouldn't have been possible.
That was just what they could see. I was more intelligent, learned faster, and had an innate sense of self-protection that humans had mostly lost over time. I think all of that could have been ignored except for a couple of things: I knew when people were going to die, I was several times stronger and faster than even body builders, and I have an out of control temper.
My parents really were unbelievably kind to me that day. "He's a little boy," my mother murmured, smiling at me.
Those four words completely changed my father's view of me. He took one of my tiny hands in his own. "Maybe you're not so bad," he murmured at me.
My mother looked the doctor straight in the eye and said, "I don't care what kind of life he'll have. He's my son and I love him."
The doctor was flabbergasted. "How could you want to keep thing?! It's a Demon! Can't you see that? It's not like us! It's not human. All it wants to do is to kill!"
It's true. The demon part I mean, not the wanting to kill people. A ton of people think I'm from hell. I really can't answer that. I remember the beginning of my life and nothing before. So many people have told me though, I almost believe them. Whether or not, I'm human isn't really the top of things for me to figure out. I came from humans and that's enough for me.
As for being a monster, who can really say? It all depends on your point of view. To others, I am the monster because I am comfortable with death and look a bit different. How can I be the monster when everyone I have ever met wishes I was dead? They are the monsters to me.
When the doctors was finally convinced that my parents wouldn't kill me, she fell into a sullen silence.
"Why is he crying like that?" Mom asked. "He sounds like he can't breathe right."
The doctor rolled her eyes, snorting rudely. "It's almost two months premature. It's lungs aren't finished growing. How about you ask a more important question like, where are you going to hide him after he goes on a murderous rampage and kills half your town?"
My mom looked her straight in the eye. "We'll hide him in the basement. Happy?" she said, sarcastically. "How about an incubator? Will he die?"
"You know, I don’t think we have one available," the doctor said, but we could all hear the lie in her voice. "So…yeah, he'll probably die."
My mother glared. "If you won't find us one, we'll get another doctor and another, until we find someone who will help us."
The doctor sighed. I think she knew how much the other doctors would look down upon her for letting me die, even if they would have wanted to do the same. "I will need to put a name tag put on the incubator, so we can tell it apart--Oh, how silly of me. "Demon" should get across what we need to know." With that, she scooped me up and stalked out of the room. The entire time that woman was with me, she told me how atrocious I was and how she'd be doing the world a favor if she just let me die.
Once I was in the incubator with IV's and who knows what else hooked up to me, I was left alone. OF course, I wasn't allowed anywhere near other babies. I could have hurt them or contaminated them…maybe even killed them. How ridiculous. I couldn't even breathe.
I don't know how much time had passed before I saw anyone other than the nurses who resented even taking care of me. I know it was weeks, maybe months but I don't think it really affected me. I didn't really care for my parents yet. We'd only seen each other the once, and maybe I resented them for leaving me with people who hated me.
One day, I finally saw my parents again. I didn't know then that they held a faint hope that it was all just a bad dream, that I wasn't a shame to my family. Those hopes were gone the instant they saw me, but my parents but on a brave face. "Hey sweetie," my mom cooed at me, as the nurses undid what hooked my up to the machines. My heart sped up since I knew by now that the machines were the only thing that separated me from the terrible, breathless feeling. A couple of the nurses had undid them before, just to cruelly watch me suffer. This time was different. I could breathe on my own and felt completely safe in my mother's arms.
"We came up with a name for you," my father told me. "We'll name you Easter. Maybe your birthday means something. We want everyone to know that we believe you can be a good person and be stronger than your instincts. You'll prove everyone wrong, won't you?"
I took his words to heart, even though they probably never meant anything to him. I tried my best to live by them even when my name sounds like a sick joke. I know it was just a hope, but I want to make it more. I tried for years to earn their approval and be the son they always wanted.
I never really had a chance though. I never went outside, never came downstairs when we had visitors, and definitely never saw any sign of me around the house. My room was basic and could have been a room for guests, there were no pictures of me, or toys lying around. It was like they were keeping their options open about whether they wanted a kid. It looked like they could get rid of me at any time.
There came a time they couldn't hide me anymore. I had to go to school. Soon everyone would know what my parents had created, and I can't say they were looking forward to that day.
I was quite possibly the most socially inept, awkward five year old you could ever meet. I was terrified to be alone. I was used to being near my parents, having never met anyone else. I was always bordering on a panic attack when they left me to go out, not to say that that discouraged them at all. They frequently left me at home alone, sometimes for days, so I was pretty good at taking care of myself. I didn't like it, but I could.
My mother wanted to melt into the ground that day. All those perfect children and my mother had to walk in there with me. EVERYONE was staring at us. As you can imagine, this didn't do much for my almost nonexistent self esteem. My mother wouldn't even look at anyone and I followed her example. She took me straight to the teacher, not that the teacher was that thrilled with it.
"This is Easter. He's a bit shy, but we've had no problems with him. You'll be good by yourself, right Easter?" my mother said, sternly.
"Mommy, I'm scared-"
"Easter," she warned. I understood then that I was supposed to be showing off, so my mother could be proud of me and show me that I wouldn't lose control and hurt anyone.
"Yes, Mommy," I whispered.
I shuddered when the elderly kindergarten teacher peered down at me, frowning slightly. She knew I was pretending just as much as I did. "Go play," she said, stiffly.
As I walked away, I heard, "He'd better not hurt anyone. If he does, by bringing him here, I'm assuming you understand the risks. If he hurts anyone, we may have to kill him to avoid another students death. We'll try to avoid it, but it happens."
I already knew what the teacher was talking about. I'd lost my temper a couple of times, always when they wanted to leave and there was a thunderstorm or something of the like. My parents had barely managed to get me into my room before I complete broke down and punched holes in walls, threw furniture, screamed, and usually hurt myself. I'd broken both my arms, one of my wings (which I had to go to a vet to get it fixed, and even then I had to let it loose all the time.) a few ribs, a couple of fingers, got a few concussions, and a few other things. The weird thing was, I couldn't remember doing it. For someone so used to remembering everything, it was strange and really scary not to remember something so serious. I felt so bad but I couldn't help it.
"Understood," my mother said, coolly. With that, she left and I was alone.
I shifted nervously, feeling the familiar pressure of my wings wanting to break free of my skin. I know that sounds weird and painful, but it's really not. One second I'm a winged freak and the next I'm normal, if not a bit uncomfortable. As of yet, I didn't know how people my age would react to me, never having talked to one. I walked timidly over to two boys. "Hi," I mumbled.
They just stared at me open-mouthed. Then, one of them screamed and the other pushed me to the ground roughly. "Monster!" the screaming one said, bursting into tears. The other kicked at me. I was so scared and sad, I didn't even have the heart to get angry at them. I just wanted to be left alone.
The teacher gave a high-pitched shriek and ran over grabbing me off the ground. Just as I opened my mouth to thank her, she shook me hard, like I was the one who'd been beating the crap out of some poor, defenseless kid. "How dare you bother these kids, you little freak! Do you want me to tell your mother how bad you've been?" she hissed.
I whimpered, shaking my head wildly. I didn't know what I'd done wrong, but I didn't want my parents to be mad at me. "N-no. I-I-I'm s-s-s-sorry. I-I w-w-w-won't again. I-I p-promise."
"Sit in the back of class for the rest of the day. I don't want to see you making any trouble today, or I'll talk to your parents," she threatened.
I nodded guiltily, and slunk to the back corner of class. I'd already successfully embarrasses myself in front of everyone. I buried my head into my knees, trying not to cry. If I did anything that day, I was determined not to cry.
The two boys came up to me, just after snack time, and grinned. "We’re not your friends, freak. My mommy told me about monsters like you," one said, while the other nodded, enthusiastically.
How I didn't lose control then, will always confuse me. I don't think I was really angry at them, just sad and sorry that I wouldn't have any friends. I think more than anything, I understood. I wouldn't want to be friends with me either. Oh well. I'll never understand, but I can be grateful for it. I'd regret hurting him. Even though I don't think it'll ever happen, he could change.
After they left, I was alone for the rest of the day. It seemed everyone else either didn't care about my presence, or was too scared of me.
When I finally got home, I begged my parents not to send me back to school. They told me I was over exaggerating and that I had to learn sooner or later what the world was like.
That night, I wondered for the first time what was wrong with me. I think I started to understand even then that I couldn't trust anyone. I remember in the next weeks seeing something strange. Some people were half out of their bodies, like their spirit was trying to escape. I didn't understand it until I watched the news one day and saw that the three people I'd seen die that day had died from a car accident, been murdered, and died of cancer. I understood then, but never told anyone.
It got even worse when I got old enough to get crushes on people that hated me and, as if that wasn't enough, fate also decided to make me gay, so people could hate me because I'm different and I'm gay. Being gay made girls hate me even worse for some reason. It's like I personally rejected all of them the second I came out (A stupid mistake I know, but I didn't think my life could get worse. I was wrong.). I remember being like, "Excuse me. I didn't know I was high on your dating priorities in the first place. Be grateful. At least I won't be looking down your shirt."
Inevitably, I snapped. It had to happen sometime with all the people hating me, and thinking it was okay to yell at me and hit me. This particular guy wasn't even the worst. I was in a crap mood already and he just called me "fag", hit me, and…no, I'm sorry. I can't say the last thing he did to me. No one needs to know. EVER. All you need to know is after it was over, everything got hazy. When everything cleared, the boy was beneath me barely recognizable as a human. Somehow he was still alive. He was rushed to the hospital and next thing I knew I was at home standing in front of my parents.
They were ashamed of me, more so than ever before. Do you think they asked why I'd done it, after all these years of not hurting anyone? Of course not. That would be a ridiculous question. They didn't care. It didn't even matter that I was barely fourteen.
Their minds were made up. I was a lost cause. As far as they were concerned, I wasn't their son anymore. My father, who'd long ago gotten old and hunched over (Probably also my fault, since even for humans they weren't old.), leaped across the room at me. I was shocked, but even with the second of deer in headlights, I easily got out of the way. The rage in my father's eyes was unmistakable. He wanted me dead.
"Mommy?" I murmured, even though I'd long ago stopped calling my mother that. I wanted, just once, to be told that they didn't mean it and everything would be okay.
"Come here, sweetie," my mother whispered, reaching out to take my hand. "It'll all be over soon." She had a long dagger in her hand.
For a moment, I considered just dying. It'd be so much easier if it all just ended. Then, I realized. I could have died any time in the past fourteen years, but I hadn't. I wanted to live no matter what and even my own parents didn’t want the same. The haze came back and this time there was no one to stop me. I killed my parents.
I didn't feel bad, alone, angry any more than I always had. Sure, I didn't want this to happen. I don't think anyone could want it. I didn't really have much of a choice though and I understood that. They weren't strong enough to care for me. I hadn't been lucky enough to get the unconditional care most children think is their right. I know the only "right" I have is to try to live. No one has to like me, or love me. No one owes me that. I'm sure there are others like me and know what I'm going through and maybe I can find them. With that knowledge, I left to begin my new life.
Easter's POV
Things went wrong from the second I was born. I'm honestly not trying to be melodramatic, but it really is the truth. Maybe if I start at the beginning it would help?
The world I was born into was hectic, bright, and full of sounds like I'd never heard. Every thought this same thing when they were born, but over time they forgot how their lives began. I'm not that lucky, and the first months of my life will stick with me forever…Quite literally. I'm immortal. I know, I know. I'm weird, a freak, and I should die painfully, right? Yeah, I thought so.
The moment I was born, the room went silent, except for my mother screaming to see her newborn baby.
I started crying, telling everyone I was cold and didn't like it here at all. All that came out were soft, breathless mewls and the terrible feeling of not being able to get enough air into my lungs.
One of the nurses was the first to break the silence. "No, ma'am. It's not okay. I'm sorry for your loss," she said, although I didn't understand her at the time. "It's one of them."
My mother let out a wail that sounded so utterly heartbroken and only served to scare me more than I was. I was handed to a nurse, who held me at arm's length like she was hoping I'd roll out of her arms and die. Sadly, that's probably exactly what she was thinking.
I could hear the doctor talking to my parents, quietly. "I know this isn't strictly…accepted, but if you want to get rid of it, we'd understand. It would be humane. Plus, it's so premature no one would doubt that it was stillborn."
"I want to see my baby," my mother whispered. "Maybe it's not so bad."
"I'll get it," my father volunteered. You could tell he thought I was a lost cause. The nurse gratefully handed me over to my father. I remember looking up at my father; a young, bright-eyed man not long out of high school. He handed me to my poor mother, who was equally young and, if possible, looked even more exhausted.
She flinched, but kept holding me. It was more than anyone else thought I deserved. I was horrible, disgusting, and no one could ever love me. It's my fault I'm like that, I'm told, but how? I don't think I ever had a chance.
I had the clear, paper-thin skin of the premature baby I was, but I knew that was not what was frightening her. I had silver eyes, razor sharp teeth (that would eventually be replaced with more human-like teeth, but they didn't know that at the time), an extremely light body that was not even a pound (even factoring in how premature I was I should have weighed about four times more. My kind are much lighter than humans.), I had small bumps on my back that would grow into inky black wings as I grew (I learned to make them disappear for hours at a time as I got older), and a long, muscular body that shouldn't have been possible.
That was just what they could see. I was more intelligent, learned faster, and had an innate sense of self-protection that humans had mostly lost over time. I think all of that could have been ignored except for a couple of things: I knew when people were going to die, I was several times stronger and faster than even body builders, and I have an out of control temper.
My parents really were unbelievably kind to me that day. "He's a little boy," my mother murmured, smiling at me.
Those four words completely changed my father's view of me. He took one of my tiny hands in his own. "Maybe you're not so bad," he murmured at me.
My mother looked the doctor straight in the eye and said, "I don't care what kind of life he'll have. He's my son and I love him."
The doctor was flabbergasted. "How could you want to keep thing?! It's a Demon! Can't you see that? It's not like us! It's not human. All it wants to do is to kill!"
It's true. The demon part I mean, not the wanting to kill people. A ton of people think I'm from hell. I really can't answer that. I remember the beginning of my life and nothing before. So many people have told me though, I almost believe them. Whether or not, I'm human isn't really the top of things for me to figure out. I came from humans and that's enough for me.
As for being a monster, who can really say? It all depends on your point of view. To others, I am the monster because I am comfortable with death and look a bit different. How can I be the monster when everyone I have ever met wishes I was dead? They are the monsters to me.
When the doctors was finally convinced that my parents wouldn't kill me, she fell into a sullen silence.
"Why is he crying like that?" Mom asked. "He sounds like he can't breathe right."
The doctor rolled her eyes, snorting rudely. "It's almost two months premature. It's lungs aren't finished growing. How about you ask a more important question like, where are you going to hide him after he goes on a murderous rampage and kills half your town?"
My mom looked her straight in the eye. "We'll hide him in the basement. Happy?" she said, sarcastically. "How about an incubator? Will he die?"
"You know, I don’t think we have one available," the doctor said, but we could all hear the lie in her voice. "So…yeah, he'll probably die."
My mother glared. "If you won't find us one, we'll get another doctor and another, until we find someone who will help us."
The doctor sighed. I think she knew how much the other doctors would look down upon her for letting me die, even if they would have wanted to do the same. "I will need to put a name tag put on the incubator, so we can tell it apart--Oh, how silly of me. "Demon" should get across what we need to know." With that, she scooped me up and stalked out of the room. The entire time that woman was with me, she told me how atrocious I was and how she'd be doing the world a favor if she just let me die.
Once I was in the incubator with IV's and who knows what else hooked up to me, I was left alone. OF course, I wasn't allowed anywhere near other babies. I could have hurt them or contaminated them…maybe even killed them. How ridiculous. I couldn't even breathe.
I don't know how much time had passed before I saw anyone other than the nurses who resented even taking care of me. I know it was weeks, maybe months but I don't think it really affected me. I didn't really care for my parents yet. We'd only seen each other the once, and maybe I resented them for leaving me with people who hated me.
One day, I finally saw my parents again. I didn't know then that they held a faint hope that it was all just a bad dream, that I wasn't a shame to my family. Those hopes were gone the instant they saw me, but my parents but on a brave face. "Hey sweetie," my mom cooed at me, as the nurses undid what hooked my up to the machines. My heart sped up since I knew by now that the machines were the only thing that separated me from the terrible, breathless feeling. A couple of the nurses had undid them before, just to cruelly watch me suffer. This time was different. I could breathe on my own and felt completely safe in my mother's arms.
"We came up with a name for you," my father told me. "We'll name you Easter. Maybe your birthday means something. We want everyone to know that we believe you can be a good person and be stronger than your instincts. You'll prove everyone wrong, won't you?"
I took his words to heart, even though they probably never meant anything to him. I tried my best to live by them even when my name sounds like a sick joke. I know it was just a hope, but I want to make it more. I tried for years to earn their approval and be the son they always wanted.
I never really had a chance though. I never went outside, never came downstairs when we had visitors, and definitely never saw any sign of me around the house. My room was basic and could have been a room for guests, there were no pictures of me, or toys lying around. It was like they were keeping their options open about whether they wanted a kid. It looked like they could get rid of me at any time.
There came a time they couldn't hide me anymore. I had to go to school. Soon everyone would know what my parents had created, and I can't say they were looking forward to that day.
I was quite possibly the most socially inept, awkward five year old you could ever meet. I was terrified to be alone. I was used to being near my parents, having never met anyone else. I was always bordering on a panic attack when they left me to go out, not to say that that discouraged them at all. They frequently left me at home alone, sometimes for days, so I was pretty good at taking care of myself. I didn't like it, but I could.
My mother wanted to melt into the ground that day. All those perfect children and my mother had to walk in there with me. EVERYONE was staring at us. As you can imagine, this didn't do much for my almost nonexistent self esteem. My mother wouldn't even look at anyone and I followed her example. She took me straight to the teacher, not that the teacher was that thrilled with it.
"This is Easter. He's a bit shy, but we've had no problems with him. You'll be good by yourself, right Easter?" my mother said, sternly.
"Mommy, I'm scared-"
"Easter," she warned. I understood then that I was supposed to be showing off, so my mother could be proud of me and show me that I wouldn't lose control and hurt anyone.
"Yes, Mommy," I whispered.
I shuddered when the elderly kindergarten teacher peered down at me, frowning slightly. She knew I was pretending just as much as I did. "Go play," she said, stiffly.
As I walked away, I heard, "He'd better not hurt anyone. If he does, by bringing him here, I'm assuming you understand the risks. If he hurts anyone, we may have to kill him to avoid another students death. We'll try to avoid it, but it happens."
I already knew what the teacher was talking about. I'd lost my temper a couple of times, always when they wanted to leave and there was a thunderstorm or something of the like. My parents had barely managed to get me into my room before I complete broke down and punched holes in walls, threw furniture, screamed, and usually hurt myself. I'd broken both my arms, one of my wings (which I had to go to a vet to get it fixed, and even then I had to let it loose all the time.) a few ribs, a couple of fingers, got a few concussions, and a few other things. The weird thing was, I couldn't remember doing it. For someone so used to remembering everything, it was strange and really scary not to remember something so serious. I felt so bad but I couldn't help it.
"Understood," my mother said, coolly. With that, she left and I was alone.
I shifted nervously, feeling the familiar pressure of my wings wanting to break free of my skin. I know that sounds weird and painful, but it's really not. One second I'm a winged freak and the next I'm normal, if not a bit uncomfortable. As of yet, I didn't know how people my age would react to me, never having talked to one. I walked timidly over to two boys. "Hi," I mumbled.
They just stared at me open-mouthed. Then, one of them screamed and the other pushed me to the ground roughly. "Monster!" the screaming one said, bursting into tears. The other kicked at me. I was so scared and sad, I didn't even have the heart to get angry at them. I just wanted to be left alone.
The teacher gave a high-pitched shriek and ran over grabbing me off the ground. Just as I opened my mouth to thank her, she shook me hard, like I was the one who'd been beating the crap out of some poor, defenseless kid. "How dare you bother these kids, you little freak! Do you want me to tell your mother how bad you've been?" she hissed.
I whimpered, shaking my head wildly. I didn't know what I'd done wrong, but I didn't want my parents to be mad at me. "N-no. I-I-I'm s-s-s-sorry. I-I w-w-w-won't again. I-I p-promise."
"Sit in the back of class for the rest of the day. I don't want to see you making any trouble today, or I'll talk to your parents," she threatened.
I nodded guiltily, and slunk to the back corner of class. I'd already successfully embarrasses myself in front of everyone. I buried my head into my knees, trying not to cry. If I did anything that day, I was determined not to cry.
The two boys came up to me, just after snack time, and grinned. "We’re not your friends, freak. My mommy told me about monsters like you," one said, while the other nodded, enthusiastically.
How I didn't lose control then, will always confuse me. I don't think I was really angry at them, just sad and sorry that I wouldn't have any friends. I think more than anything, I understood. I wouldn't want to be friends with me either. Oh well. I'll never understand, but I can be grateful for it. I'd regret hurting him. Even though I don't think it'll ever happen, he could change.
After they left, I was alone for the rest of the day. It seemed everyone else either didn't care about my presence, or was too scared of me.
When I finally got home, I begged my parents not to send me back to school. They told me I was over exaggerating and that I had to learn sooner or later what the world was like.
That night, I wondered for the first time what was wrong with me. I think I started to understand even then that I couldn't trust anyone. I remember in the next weeks seeing something strange. Some people were half out of their bodies, like their spirit was trying to escape. I didn't understand it until I watched the news one day and saw that the three people I'd seen die that day had died from a car accident, been murdered, and died of cancer. I understood then, but never told anyone.
It got even worse when I got old enough to get crushes on people that hated me and, as if that wasn't enough, fate also decided to make me gay, so people could hate me because I'm different and I'm gay. Being gay made girls hate me even worse for some reason. It's like I personally rejected all of them the second I came out (A stupid mistake I know, but I didn't think my life could get worse. I was wrong.). I remember being like, "Excuse me. I didn't know I was high on your dating priorities in the first place. Be grateful. At least I won't be looking down your shirt."
Inevitably, I snapped. It had to happen sometime with all the people hating me, and thinking it was okay to yell at me and hit me. This particular guy wasn't even the worst. I was in a crap mood already and he just called me "fag", hit me, and…no, I'm sorry. I can't say the last thing he did to me. No one needs to know. EVER. All you need to know is after it was over, everything got hazy. When everything cleared, the boy was beneath me barely recognizable as a human. Somehow he was still alive. He was rushed to the hospital and next thing I knew I was at home standing in front of my parents.
They were ashamed of me, more so than ever before. Do you think they asked why I'd done it, after all these years of not hurting anyone? Of course not. That would be a ridiculous question. They didn't care. It didn't even matter that I was barely fourteen.
Their minds were made up. I was a lost cause. As far as they were concerned, I wasn't their son anymore. My father, who'd long ago gotten old and hunched over (Probably also my fault, since even for humans they weren't old.), leaped across the room at me. I was shocked, but even with the second of deer in headlights, I easily got out of the way. The rage in my father's eyes was unmistakable. He wanted me dead.
"Mommy?" I murmured, even though I'd long ago stopped calling my mother that. I wanted, just once, to be told that they didn't mean it and everything would be okay.
"Come here, sweetie," my mother whispered, reaching out to take my hand. "It'll all be over soon." She had a long dagger in her hand.
For a moment, I considered just dying. It'd be so much easier if it all just ended. Then, I realized. I could have died any time in the past fourteen years, but I hadn't. I wanted to live no matter what and even my own parents didn’t want the same. The haze came back and this time there was no one to stop me. I killed my parents.
I didn't feel bad, alone, angry any more than I always had. Sure, I didn't want this to happen. I don't think anyone could want it. I didn't really have much of a choice though and I understood that. They weren't strong enough to care for me. I hadn't been lucky enough to get the unconditional care most children think is their right. I know the only "right" I have is to try to live. No one has to like me, or love me. No one owes me that. I'm sure there are others like me and know what I'm going through and maybe I can find them. With that knowledge, I left to begin my new life.
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