From day one of my mums death, I had been told that I was a fuck up.
It had never changed.
It never will.
My father blamed me.
He blamed me for his alcoholism.
He blamed me for my mums death.
He told me that I was nothing.
Nothing except a fuck up.
He was right, wasn't he?
I wasn't capable of being helpful.
Of being worthy.
Of being happy.
He always tells me that I should have died instead of my mother.
He was right.
My mother was beautiful.
She was happy.
When she was alive, our family was strong.
Everyone in the neighborhood knew us as the happiest family on the block.
At least that's what everyone thought.
The Howells.
Boy, were those good times.
But not anymore.
Even my brother.
My brother doesn't love me either, does he?
He isolates himself.
I guess I'm just as bad as he is, aren't I?
I don't have much room to talk.
He screams at himself.
I can hear him through the walls.
I hear him cry every night.
We're very much alike.
I want to be close to him.
He's all I have.
He doesn't deserve pain.
He's only 16.
I'm the only one who deserves all the pain.
Everyone hates me.
But I realized, that's ok.
Cause I, hate me too.
