The wall looked back at me as I stared at it. My mind, acting as its usual self, created a face on the wall. The face was only eyes and ears, the rest of it only blank. "Good, someone who can listen. I apologize if I am annoying, I tend to get extremely personal when I start talking. Also, I talk endlessly.. So, uh, yeah. Nice to meet you, and thank you for watching over me as I 'slept' last night," I talked to the wall, using my hands and facial expressions, as if it could really listen, "anyway, I think I should tell you my background. So, since my father decided to leave me alone in that apartment by myself one night, I have been living on my own, on the streets, searching for something but I don't know what. My dad left me four years ago, and I am now fifteen years of age." I paused, staring at the wall, then looked around me, listening to the awake and busy city. I continued, "hopefully one day I will have the chance to say goodbye to my father when I sit back and watch him die." I thought about seeing the life drain out of my father's eyes, and his soul escaping his corpse. Was it terrible that I loved this image? Yes, it was, but I am done caring. I went on telling this wall about my life, "I was born in a small, dirty apartment. Surprisingly I lived, I was supposed to die. I guess my mother didn't believe in abortion either. Sometimes I don't know whether to thank her or hate her for bringing me into this world. The perks of being born in an apartment was that there was no record of my birth. So, I never had to attend school. My mother taught me everything I "needed" to know. Just the basics, I suppose. I always stayed indoors, or right outside the apartment building, I never went anywhere except on Sundays. My mother would wake herself up and get us ready quietly as father snored in his slumber. She took us to this place called church, where people raised their hands and read from a leather-binded book they called the Word Of God. They had so many various names for it, I sometimes got confused. My mother never explained it to me, she acted as if church never occurred. We sat in the back, watching from the shadows silently. Sometimes my mother and I would return and my father would be waiting in rage for us just on the other side of the door. When I saw him in times like this, I would clutch to my mother's church dress as she stared wide-eyed in the doorframe. My father would stand for only a few seconds, then he would rush himself over to me, ripping me off of my scared mother. She would only gasp and slowly reach out one hand toward me. I would scream, my father would wrap his clammy hand around my face, muffling my shrieks. I would writhe widly within my father's grasp, but he was too strong for me to escape. He almost effortlessly walked me over to the closet I called my room and threw me into it. The ropes that were hanging from the hook in the wall welcomed me as they were tied tightly around my wrists. I had scars from these ropes, all up and down my arm. After they were tied, my father threw me up against the wall and I stumbled onto the floor limply. My arms were held up at an odd angle as my body lay on the hard floor. I let my head hang limp and my long, tangled hair covered my face. With my eyes closed, I awaited the first hit. It did not come, but I continued to wait. I never knew why he did these things, maybe it was to take out his anger. He always seemed infuriated with everything. Maybe he hated his life so much that he wanted others to feel his pain and hatred. Suddenly, my head was jerked up by my hair. I winced from the pain but made no noise and kept my eyes shut. "Look at me, darling," my father said quietly. I shook my head in pain. My hair was still being pulled and was yanked harder as I refused to open my eyes..." I remembered I was only talking to a wall, "Oh my, I'm getting quite detailed, aren't I? I forgot..." I just looked at my friend, the wall, and continued where I left off, "Anyway, my father hit me often, and I constantly found myself tied up to the hook in the wall. I tattooed that into myself," I laughed harshly and showed the wall the tattoo on the inside of my upper left arm. It said, "THE HOOK IN THE WALL" in unique lettering with a hook next to it. "Do you like it?" I asked the wall. "Well, of course you do, who wouldn't? Duhhh.." I laughed at myself, "I've lost my mind..." "Anyway, I should wrap up my story so I can get going, shouldn't I?" I continued having a "conversation" with this wall, "So.. One day I was sitting on our torn and battered green couch where my dad slept each night. I was making an attempt at reading. At this time, I was ten years of age. As I repeated each word to the couch, my mother and father were screaming at each other. They were louder than usual, and I could feel much more tension in the air than I ever had. My mother just screamed of how much she hated and despised my father, and how she wished she had never met him. Eventually, no longer being able to concentrate, I turned around to watch by just barely sticking my head above the back of the couch. While I stared, I saw the rage in each of my parents eyes and the bitter tears running down my mother's cheeks. Confidently but quietly my mother glared into my father's eyes and said, "I hate you." Suddenly, my father hit her with his right fist, slamming his hand into the the side of her face, the pressure sending her flying into the tall kitchen counter on the left. I gasped in surprise and I saw my father snap his attention toward me. With gritted teeth, he told me to go to bed and keep quiet. I made the decision to stay where I was, but not make another sound. My mother held herself up with one arm and had her other hand placed gently upon the place where my father hit her. "Don't ever say that again, ever, or I will kill you," my father said slowly with anger burning in his voice, looking at my mother as if he was her master. My mother took her hand away from her face and looked up at my father with rage and hate beaming from them while crimson blood trickled down her face, combining with her tears. She took the challenge and said in a whisper, "I hate you." Suddenly, my father pulled out a gun from his belt and pressed it against the side of my mother's head, she was against the wall now. I swear that I spotted my own helpless and scared reflection on the gleaming gun as it was whipped out by my father's hand. The hand that caused me so much pain. The hand that beat out my light. The hand that showed me how thankful I should be for each second." I choked on my words as I noticed there was tears running down my cheeks. "Oh my goodness, I'm so weak..." I mumbled to myself. I wiped off the tears on my sleeve and straightened myself up continuing with the wall, "So sorry about that. Anyway, my mother was so confident. Maybe she didn't think he would do it. Maybe she wanted him to. She screamed into his face, "I dare you to shoot me, bastard!" It all happened so quickly. The trigger was pulled, the bullet went through my mother's head, blood was everywhere, my mother's body fell limp onto the ground, my father stood over her, shaking. All I saw was the beautiful crimson colour of blood. It was on the wall, and leaking out of my mother's head onto the floor. It created a beautiful puddle of death. Once I regained stability, I ran to my closet, and held on to the ropes that almost constantly held me there. I couldn't sleep that night, I just stared at the wall and tried to forget everything." I paused, and stared across the alley at my friend, "Well, yeah.. That's how my mother died. Anyway, I don't think I'm going to go anywhere at the moment, I'm just going to rest for now."
