A long time ago, I stopped feeling sympathy for others. Most of them are probably be criminals, useless, or idiots that only care for themselves. They all deserved what came to them. At my grandmothers funeral, I remembered how she watched my parents beat me. When my friend broke his arm, I remembered how he bullied grade school kids around town. I rarely trust anybody anymore. Did I mention my depression? Well, it was pretty big. Stuck out like a sore thumb, or bloody scars. It festered inside me, but grew bigger and bigger over the years. By age 12, I had discovered drugs. It was the only thing that made me happy. Made me feel good. There was nothing that could drag me out of this pit I dug. Then there was that one day.
By now I was about 17 and my parents still beat me. The only thing that I cared about was my teddy bear. Yeah, I know. He protected me his entire life though. So my dad was drunk as usual and upset about something. He dragged me out of my bed and threw me on the floor. I clutched my teddy bear to my chest, hoping that he could get me out of this. Then, my dad took him. Threw him into the fireplace. My one defense against the world and my only friend is gone. My dad slapped me across the face and yelled at me, but I had other plans for this beating. I kicked him away and dashed into the kitchen. I grabbed a knife from the counter and sliced open his stomach. He fell to his knees, guts spilling out, anger still written on his face. I grabbed his hair, then sliced at the throat. No more would he bother me. Soon enough, my mother showed up; probably due to the lack of my screaming or my now past father's drunken anger. She saw the bloody mess on the floor, and gazed at me with fearful eyes. She was afraid of me. At first I was shocked, but then I felt happy. The tables were turned. I couldn't hold back my laughter as I cut and sliced at her pale skin. They deserved this. They hurt me and took everything from me. They had what was coming.
Before I left that house for good, I made sure it was burned to the ground. I was walking through the woods for about three days before the cops found me. If I remember correctly, they called me a psychopath. Said I needed to be either locked up forever or killed. How absurd. I only did what any reasonable person would. They took everything fro me and more, so I just put them out of their misery. Saved them from their sad little lives. I wanted them to live happily, but I was only being fair.
Needless to say, as you talk to me right now, these are my last few hours of life. Before they take it away from me. I didn't do anything wrong though. If I did, I would have thrown myself off a cliff a while ago. Everyone deserves what's coming to them, except me. I'm getting killed after I was tortured by my parents and then spared their little lives. Is there anything wrong with that?
