Unhappy Thoughts

Prologue

"To run or not to run (away)" that's the question I had been asking myself for the last eight years. When I was three years old I was sent to live with my grandmother while my father went to war and my mother went to NASA headquarters so that she could train to learn to be one of the first humans to touch Mars. I spent four years with my grandmother before returning to my father. During my time with my grandmother she told me many stories, one of my favorites being Peter Pan. As a young child I was fascinated by his adventures and thought it amazing that he could fly and always stayed a boy, never growing up. Every night I would stand by my window and say 'I believe in you Peter Pan' but never got a response. As the years went by I began to lose hope in him until I gave up entirely, or so I thought. When I was seven my father returned from war. After a month I was brought back to him. I was so happy to see him and everything was perfect until the nightmares began. I would wake up to him screaming and yelling things that I could not understand. Then he began leaving the house in the middle of the night, if he woke up from a nightmare, and going to the bar downtown. I wasn't afraid of being in a dark house alone, I was afraid if my father being out of the house at one in the morning. When he would come back it would be worse cause he would be drunk. In his drunken state he would order me around the house. One time I didn't hear him right and did something wrong as punishment he became abusive. I tried calling my mother but found out she was accomplishing her dream and on her way to Mars. At school I would go to the library and try to forget about my life by reading books, it didn't help. my teachers soon got me to spill the beans and tell them of my home life. Shortly after my father was arrested and I was put into the nearest orphanage. When I was ten I was adopted by my aunt who lived in London and was cared by her for many years like her own daughter would be. But all good things must end and she died of a stroke when I was 13. Once again I was put into an orphanage this time in London. Unlike my first orphanage, where we all cared about each other, this new orphanage was the complete opposite, in fact, to call it an orphanage would be biased, it was a boot camp. They made us train all day and learn hand in hand combat as well as how to use weapons such as knives, bow and arrows, and even swords. as a new comer I was placed in the beginning level but quickly replaced to level three when they learned I was a good puncher. I put up with gruesome leaders and kids for a couple years and in that time I became a first class fighter and solider, but a very angry and unloved one. At the end of each month we had to challenge another student in each area of training in a death match. If we refused they would whip us or tell us things to make us angry. Then they would make us direct our anger on our opponent. Every night I would think about running away, but I never knew what I would do if I did. Sure I could fend for myself but that was about it. Then one night something triggered in my brain and instead I said, "I believe."