Fixer Unfixed

Chapter One

I've never wanted anything, not once in my life. And I've lived 16 years - that's a long time spent without so much as mild yearning.

The year came and went like any other. Most kids my age would normally host a party for such a special occasion, but any futile thought of celebration was just pitiful and unnecessary. What's the point of celebrating someone who's worth is comparable to that of a sac of rice? I had no other purpose than to be a stress reliever for my parents. It didn't matter what I did - I was in the way, doing my chores wrong, ugly, or simply just "off-putting." After a while, we all gave up. I stopped trying to evade the inevitable, and they stopped trying to justify it. Whatever. It'd be nice if I got a break here and there, but what can ya do?

Today was like any other. I did my chores - albeit a little half heartedly - and tried to stay in places that were less frequented. Forming attachments is hard in situations like mine, but, when left untouched, it wasn't an impossible feat. Lately, I'd been taking to walking to the edge of our field, beyond the coops, barn, and silos, down to a quaint clearing within a patch of trees. Sometimes I'd just sit there, absorbing the sounds of nature. Others, I'd carefully pluck flowers and weave them into different shapes - a crown here, a simple bouquet there. Nothing fancy.

Today was a little different from others - I apologize for leading you astray. Today, I felt a little special; I, naive little I, thought that I may have earned a bit of leisurely reading time. On my way out the back door, my curious eyes happened upon a book - one of my mother's. I knew how to read, of course. My parents somehow recognized that a child without basic comprehension is a child without use. Whether I should be grateful... I'm unsure.

The book I'd grabbed was one I was sure she wouldn't miss - I particularly remember her putting it down and sighing before grabbing another book - called Early From The Dance. If it was truly so boring, surely she wouldn't notice its absence. She did.

I'm not sure if I would describe my last moments as painful. If anything, I felt relieved. All of the beatings leading up to this final one seemed to accustom me to a point where the pain was but a single-toothed dog gnawing at my ankles. All feeling was collected in my brain - if you could call it feeling. Perhaps reliving?

I thought of every day, week, month, year that led up to this point. And I wondered. What have I truly done to deserve this treatment? What tangible, reasonable explanation was there for all of this pain I endured? Was it all on a whim? For some sick enjoyment? If I was truly so insufferable, why was I not rid of? It wouldn't have been hard - so, why?

And I knew. Perhaps I'd always known.

My parents are sick people. There is no reason other than that. It was mindless, unnecessary, cruel torture inflicted upon me simply because they decided it needed to be done. None of it was ever my fault. And I hate myself for thinking that. I hate them even more.

A breath in, a breath out. A signal or two between neurons, a final gasp to (seemingly) deaf ears.

"I never wish this for anyone."