.misantrophe.

e p i l o g u e.

I don't really know when my hatred started. I remember being such a joyful and happy kid, even though I was through lots of hardships. Probably a lot earlier than I could ever imagine.

It isn't easy never meeting your parents. Maybe it is easier to get past this than having them, remembering their smile, their voice and body language, their way of kissing your face for good night and for good-byes. It could be easier than seeing them vanishing right in front of your eyes in a blink of an eye. But it is still really painful to think about never seeing them, not even knowing how they look like.

I was told by my orphanage that they found me at their door. My parents never left a message, even some numbers or random letters that could possibly lead me to them later in my life. I don't know if they did that because they had to or because they never wanted me in the first place. I don't know if my existence was ever meant to be.

I'm so sorry mother, father. I am surely not what you would have wanted me to be.

The ones that took care of me at the orphanage weren't as nice as you may think. When you get there, you expect some loving people, being able to take good care of you and make you feel like you belong there. That's what orphanages should do, but sadly in many cases that is just an unrealistic dream.

For example, my first, and sadly not the last, was a hell-hole. We, children, were treated like robots, not even one person thinking otherwise.

“Those children get here, and if we have to take care of them, why not get something out of this?”- that was and maybe still is the mentality of the orphanages I had to live in. We were literally slaves, working untill we feel like passing out. They were literally doing absolutely nothing besides giving us a place to stay. We had to work our asses off to be able to stay there.

Not the orphanage you thought of, isn't it?

I was passed left and right, like a basketball. People did not want me, I was never enough for them. Not enough strength, not enough joy, not enough sadness or anger. Not enough of this, not enough of that. They were expecting perfection, a porcelain, carved out just the right way. They expected me to feel like they tell me to feel, do what they want me to do, act as they wanted me to act. Be a living doll, a non-mechanical robot, that has a heart but he still can't use it.

I tried, I really tried. Not because I was naive, but because I had to. I really had to settle somewhere, even if I was welcomed only when I did as they said.

I really tried, but failed. Something in me was rebelling, and I'm oh so glad for doing so, even though at that time I was really dissapointed with myself.

As I said earlier, I began feeling like a basketball, being thrown from one place to another, but never did I get in the hoop. I never felt like winning, never felt like being even thrown with enough courage, enough passion. I was just thrown away for the sake of it. It was like no one really wanted to be there, no one really wanted to play the game, but they had to, so they kept on throwing the ball to each other.

I felt like this for a long time, for long ass years I have been in an un-played basketball game.

But then I met her.

The one that was holding the hoop and coordinating it, making it easier to throw the ball in. The players weren't trying too hard,and they surely did not even have to try hard, because the ball easily got in the hoop. She was my saviour, my only source of happiness, my muse, the one that held the key to my heart without even knowing it.

Meeting her for the first time already made me feel a connection. You know, that connection. We were destined to meet, to connect, to get to know each other, to build a friendship and then even a relationship, maybe even family. I believed in soulmates and in that happy ending. I believed that we would grow old and die because of our old souls and bodies.