Warning!

He poured the petroleum everywhere, all over the floors. The smell invaded my nostrils, and it penetrated my brain, making me feel dizzy and weak. I watched as my mother screamed, fighting against her rope restraints. My father was crazy, my mother screamed this at him as he sloshed another can of petrol around the living room. He turned to me, smiling that sickening grin, 

"Don't miss me son." One click, a thud and the room erupted in flame.

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I've tried so many times, running in front of trains, drinking poison and even cutting directly down the middle of my arm. None of them worked, I cannot die. I remembered that horrible day, when my father tried murdering my mother and I because mum had burnt his dinner. She'd stuck it in the oven to keep it warm until he returned home from work but forgot about it and it burnt. The day afterward when the firemen searched through the rubble and burnt out shell of my childhood home, they found me, tied to the remains of the couch unharmed, not even one tiny burn marking my body.

I was a miracle child, no one knew why I had survived that terrible fate, but I kept the scientists happy. They took blood for testing and investigated my DNA, desperately trying to find out why I had not been injured by the burning house.

I was sick of being experimented on. I was sick of endless news reports and people stopping by my foster parents' house, asking question after question. That was when I started attempting. First I tried drinking Drain-O. I mixed some up, and threw it back like I'd seen my father do with whiskey. Nothing happened, I felt a bit shaken up is all. So I tried a different approach, the means of suicide a heap of people try these days, running in front of a speeding train.

I staged it well, picked a station no one used, so nobody would see my hopeless attempt. I waited, standing in the middle of the tracks, for the train to come and take me down. Finally it did and I broke a few limbs and dislocated my shoulder, but by the time I had staggered home, my arms and legs had healed and I popped my shoulder back in place as if it were nothing. This angered me, why couldn't I die. Why was I the special one, having to remember that horrible day when my father killed my mother. Why did I get chosen to live forever, not being able to die, love or have a normal life, free of the pain and anguish my fathers mental illness had caused.

After about a month of countless attempts at suicide, I was so frustrated, nothing was working! I'd tried everything, from hanging, to locking myself in a freezer. I couldn't stand it. The news reports had got more frequent, more urgent, delving further into my childhood life and I just could not stand it. I ran to the kitchen and pulled out the largest, sharpest knife I could find. I grinned once before shoving it deep into my rib cage, smashing bones and almost definitely piercing the most vital of organs. I didn't care, I drew it out and stabbed again, not giving my body a chance to heal itself. I stabbed and stabbed, all over my body, not caring where the blade entered my body.

My blood mixed with my tears and the mixture dripped onto my hardwood floors, running down the hallway and staining my rug. My hands were covered in blood and the skin of my stomach was chopped up so much that bits of it were flapping in the wake of my breath. I shivered, the warm air of my breath making my wounded body sting. This was the most alive I'd felt in years, I felt real. I smiled my fathers grin as my head crashed onto the floor, my body finally giving up.