𝐅𝐀𝐖𝐍 • ᵉ ʲᵃᵉᵍᵉʳ

the murder of the young

𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝚓𝚊𝚗𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝟸𝟹𝚛𝚍

𝐖𝐇𝐘 𝐃𝐎 𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒?
I run a hand through my day-old washed hair, feeling the strands knotting against my fingers. As I sit in Mr. Ackerman's afternoon psychology class, the fluorescent lights buzz softly above me, casting a harsh glow that only intensifies my headache. My gaze drifts across the room, momentarily distracted by the rhythmic tapping of pens and the occasional rustle of notebooks. The classroom is filled with the soft murmur of students discussing the latest gossip, but all I hear is the dull throb of my own thoughts. It's as if the world outside has faded, and I'm trapped in a bubble of my own making.

Why do teenagers usually kill their parents? It's a question that feels both distant and oddly personal. The title I've come up with for my latest essay sits uneasily in my mind, a weight I'm struggling to bear. It's not just an academic exercise; it's a reflection of my own tumultuous emotions, my grappling with betrayal, and my battle with abandonment. I stare blankly at my notebook, the lines blurring together as I think about everything that has happened over the past two months.

I can't shake the weight of these weeks. I've grown, I think—at least, I hope I have. I've distanced myself from practically everyone. It's not that I wanted to, but after seeing Eren and Historia wrapped around each other in that video, I had to. No one bothered to tell me about their secret... hookup? I can't even bring myself to think of it as a relationship; that would imply something meaningful. The names Eren and Historia feel foreign now, echoes of a life I've tried to leave behind.

It's maddening, really. My mind races back to that moment when I dropped my phone on the concrete, the world blurring around me as I registered their kiss. The joy I once associated with Eren has turned to something resembling nausea. I had convinced myself that Historia was a lesbian, that this was all some elaborate ruse to make me jealous. After all, she probably heard that I had sex with Eren. How? Beats me. Maybe she's just as gossipy as the rest of them, and the thought of it twists my stomach into knots.

I remember the silence that enveloped me after that initial shock wore off, the disbelief morphing into anger and finally into a heavy blanket of sorrow. Eren tried texting me that night, but little did he know; he was already blocked. I wonder sometimes if I should forgive him. If maybe, just maybe, there's a part of him that deserves another chance. But I usually brush past the topic, dismissing the thought as quickly as it arises. It's easier to hold onto the hurt than to confront it.

What I've observed is this: Eren and Historia kissed at that small dorm party, and it shattered me. I saw it, reacted to it, and then took a long, hard break from society. Now, sitting here, I realize that I'm loving it. I don't have to deal with the anxiety of socializing, the fear of running into Eren or Historia. I've found solace in my solitude, in the routine of my days. Sure, I miss the camaraderie I used to have with my friends, but it's a small price to pay for peace of mind.

Mr. Ackerman's voice fades into the background as I pull my thoughts back to the assignment at hand. The essay looms over me like a storm cloud, dark and oppressive. I try to channel my emotions into something constructive, reminding myself that pain can be a catalyst for growth. Why do teenagers kill their parents? I have no idea, but maybe, in a roundabout way, I'm starting to understand the reasons behind that anger.

The raw, unchecked emotions that come from feeling abandoned or betrayed—those feelings can fester and grow, leading to actions we never thought we were capable of. I know the pain of feeling rejected, of being pushed aside, and it gnaws at my insides like a hungry beast. The shadows of my past feel alive as I write, urging me to confront the darkness that lurks within me.