All my life, I always grew up healthy... But never happy.
The second I was born I was thrust into the arms of my father, as he glared down at me with cold, scorning eyes, and that's how it always would be. But I didn't know it then. I didn't know any thing. But I can tell you right now, he would make me learn.
Father always told me there were two kinds of people in the world. The ones who chose to grow up happy, and the ones who chose to grow up healthy. He chose for me.
The first 3 years of my life were the easiest. I would sleep, eat, watch, and listen. Listen. Never talk, not a peep. I can ever so vaguely remember the first time I ever cried. In that dark, small room, at the end of the hall way. In that small wooden cribs, like the ones you see in commercials or magazines. The wooden ones, that rock back and forth, with the frilly lacing, and the soft bayonet. But the one I would lay in, the one I would lay in for hours, was in the simplest terms, trashed. With old creaky, stained wood, broken bars, and a completely torn, pathetic excuse for bayonet.
I had cried for, i think, hours. Hours that droned on into more and more hours. Until I screamed, needing and wanting. Some thing, any thing, any one. As the hours blended my screams blended into screeching and as more timed past they grew weaker. But never stopped. Until the door slammed open, crashing into the wall, and shattering the handel. Father stormed over to the crib and glared at me, with now fuming, almost red eyes. His hands gripped the side of the crib like a vice and his face was constricted in pure anger and disgust. In my mist of my weakened screams I looked up at him with my blurry eyes. But he showed to emotion but anger, no sympathy, for this thing they called his son.
He stared at me. Glared at me. For I don't know how long. Until his grimace softened just a bid, and his face was a lighter shade of dark red. His jaw tighten as my screaming stopped. I was to weak to continue, and he knew if he didn't tend to me soon, I wouldn't make it. So had no other choice then to tend this thing they called his son. But he would never tend, never help, unless I was silent. That was my first lesson.
