COMPLETED
Mad:
•Insane
•Very angry
•Great, remarkable
Sang Sorenson is mad. Very mad. But growing up in the mafia with an abusive family, who wouldn't be? Sang is ordered to kidnap a certain growing team in the Academy, the Blackbourne-Toma team. Wi...
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"Faster! You call that fast?!" Jacob cries.
I ignore the sweat and exhaustion shrouding me like a dark cloud and focus on running faster. The pounding of my feet and the whir of the treadmill are drowned out by the sound of my heartbeat and Jacob's shouting. Jacob screams at me the same way he does every time, but unfortunately, I am still not used to his demands and shouts.
With each step, I focus on one thought. All this training that Mother is forcing me to do, is going to backfire. One day, I will escape and make her pay. And I will be too powerful to be stopped.
I am like a tornado.
Formed of wreckage and storms and fierce winds. Destroying everything in its path. A pillar of fierce and intense fury.
With the concept of freedom looming in front of me, I am able to run. I am able to continue and push through the pain. I am able to deal with Jacob's screaming.
Finally, after my time is up and Jacob is satisfied with my work, I am released from the training room. After cleaning up, I head to the kitchen and pick up my slice of toast for the day from the kitchen. I carry it upstairs to my room and sit down at the edge of my bed and stare at the hard and disgusting bread.
With a frustrated cry, I throw the toast against the wall and don't even bother with flinching at the dent it leaves on the wall. I clench my fists and rise from where I am sitting, only to pace angrily.
How is this acceptable?
How are people okay with my treatment?
Why did I make that deal to trade my own meal?
Why did I agree to take prisoners, fourteen no less?
Why can I not just deal with my life?
Even after hours of training, I feel energized by my anger. I feel the need to hit something. To break something. To scream.
I force my hands to unclench. Closing my eyes, I take deep breaths and begin to count by prime numbers.
The feeling of not being in control. Despite being at least eighteen years old, I have no control over my schedule, my eating, my home, who I live with, what I learn, my fights, my hobbies, my hair, my wardrobe, my health, my comings and goings, and so much more. I don't need to be in control of everything or be a micromanager, but everybody needs some control in their lives. And I have none.
Being told that you are less than everyone else. Mother, Jade, and Marie all make a point of telling me that I am less and that I don't deserve every hardship that comes my way. I deserve much worse. Some people, like McCoy, believe that Mother is too kind to me. Some just stare unbelieving at me as I go by. As if it is still a surprise that I am still around and still breathing. Like a low life like me doesn't deserve to live at all.
The feeling of loneliness. The closest things to friends I have are a strange man, a person paid to teach me, a mad scientist, and a figment of my memory that only comes out when I am in a drug-induced stupor. I feel as if I am all alone in this world, yet I am surrounded by people. People that I wish I could get away from. People that I swear to get away from.
Longing for a life that has yet to come. Despite knowing that I should be content, I still find that myself wanting. Wanting a family that loves me. Wanting friends. Wanting safety. Wanting a nice, normal, average life. Wanting three meals a day. Wanting to put all this useless knowledge to use. Wanting to stop wanting.
The confusion that plagues me daily. Can people really read my mind? Are sea stars real? And if they are, then aren't unicorns real too? Was Kayli ever real? Is any of this real? Will I wake up one day to find that this was all just a dream? That I hit my head and was in a coma? Is it normal for mothers to hit their children? To call them their little doll? For fathers to put their daughters in fights? To lock them in rooms designated for torture? To be hated by most everyone?
To know that everyone is right. That I know that I don't deserve to be alive. That I am a monster. That I am a below everyone and a waste of resources. To know that whatever I receive, good or bad, I deserve much, much worse.
The feeling of emptiness and feeling far too much.
I collapse backward on my bed, drained to the point of being empty. I swear to you, I am not bipolar. I am just emotional on top of being a slightly strange person.
Making my features go completely blank of any emotion or feeling, I sit up. I fix my appearance by running a comb through my long hair, straightening my dress, and retying my shoes. With perfect posture akin to a doll, I stride out of the room and into the halls once more, my steps naturally silent.
