Little Diary

Sad Back Story

(I just had a thought to write this. It's a sad back story.)

I hate them.

I only just met them, yet I have hated them from the day I was old enough to understand reality versus the fantasy that we are all living inside of.

Why am I remembering this now?

This is a dream right?

It feels so real though. So inexplicably real.

It's because they are making me remember.

I do.

Please stop.

I can feel it.

My wrist.

The dark numbers being burned into my flesh.

I want to scream.

But it is not real.

I can't scream. It hurts so badly, I want to scream, I have to scream, I desperately need to scream. My face stays frozen. Why do I have to remember this? Why here? why now? God-oh god, why is this... no. No god.

There is no god.

I convinced myself of that years ago. So why-

WHY

... do I still find myself... yearning for him... begging for him.

But no.

God is not real.

He is a fairytale.

He is nothing.

For how can he be real-when things like this happen? People-poor, innocent people... are pulled down into the black waves of the very depths of hell. But how can there be a hell when there is not heaven? She didn't deserve it. Of course she didn't. She did not deserve to have that shining silver blade run across her throat. The pointed, glistening, hard, cold, smooth blade... felt no resistance. As the blood drew from her neck, tears streamed from within her eyes. She wasn't even old enough to understand reality versus fantasy, she wasn't even old enough... to hate them.

Never will she ever get to feel that rush- that thrill- that bite... of absolute loathing that courses through your body like the crashing of the black waves inside of you. But to them, they deserved no hatred. To them this was a simple... calm... friendly warning. They were serious.

THEY WERE SERIOUS?!

Is that all they had to say after they ruined so much of the insignificant life that my family had?! I won't take that for an answer-I will NEVER take that for an answer. Not now not in one million years, will that be acceptable.

My father saw this.

He saw it right away, and him being much braver than I as a mere child, stood up to the ones who delusioned about the concept of right and wrong. He stood up to them. And they treated them as they saw fit. Because a bullet to the head was, to them, what he deserved.

Now half of my family was gone. I sat there, clutching my mother as tight as I possibly could... hoping... praying. That this was not the end. So selfish was I. To seek shelter in my mother's warm embrace, and expect salvation to come from her. Not a second thought about what she might be feeling.

***

Why am I remembering this? Why, please tell my why. I have seen enough. I don't want to watch this anymore. I know everything fell apart, so why do you have to remind me of this every time my eyes shut to darkness. I can still feel my wrist. It hurt for years. Maybe it was just me remembering the pain. It couldn't still be there for so long.

***

I spent one year, and five months more with my mother. One day a group of good men came to save us and the others. It was all in vain. People uninvolved were pushed into the fight. Chaos broke loose. My mother didn't run fast enough. I stopped to return to her. She had betrayed the man who destroyed her family. What a surprise. What a huge surprise that she hated him.

Seven bullets.

All it would have taken was one to the head... just like my father. But she was special. She was my mother.

I was marked as special from day one. I stood up and stopped crying when I was told. I would always shut up and listen. My eyes were cold and gray, like my sisters had been, after the knife had left her. Seven bullets straight to the stomach for my mother. Giving her just enough time to say goodbye.

I could barely even see her as a wave of men came in. she was buried by the fuss. Hours later I was out of the hustle and bustle. Tears stung my eyes and ran down my face. I was delirious, and on a lack of food and water. All I knew was that there were two men standing there, wondering. Yelling at me. 'Was I one of them?' 'Was I one of the marked ones?' I hid my wrist. I tried to stop them but the tears came spilling out from my eyes. I did the only thing I could think of. The thing the hated man had once taught me. How to pray to god. I dropped down to my knees, and began. "M-my father.... who," I could barely talk through sobs and gasps for air. "My father... who-who art in heaven hal-hal," I didn't remember most of it. But the men let me go. In all this torment, I hadn't even noticed that it had been snowing for hours. I lay beside an oak tree. Tall and strong. I could feel the blood rushing from a stray bullet hole that had remained unnoticed. It was melting some of the snow around me and turning it to the color of bubblegum.

***

I remember before this all started, every other Tuesday my father would take me down to the shop on the corner to buy bubblegum.

***

I breathed up into the sky. I accidentally inhaled some of the blood that was in my mouth.

Coughed.

Cried.

Died.

Lived.

Staring into the sky I wondered.

I just wondered.

I don't remember what about. I just remember I wondered, until I fell asleep in the white blanket of snow that was covering me.

Bleeding.

Dying.

And very much alone.