I.. Is It My Fault?

Chapter 1

...
I won't lie to you guys. I ain't an expert in first person perspective. But I decided to shake it up a bit...

I hope y'all enjoy this anyway though. I'd love to hear your thoughts on this. Any changes that you think would be best for the story. Anything. I always say I work best with criticism, so be harsh.
...

I was young when my parents split. They say it was all my fault. I ripped the family apart.
I was too young to actually know what was going on, so all I could do was accept that.
I was five to be exact on the age. My mother walked out. My father.. Lets say he didn't take it so well.
Fuck it, we all know I'm sugar coating it. It was tough.
Over the years, I built several barriers to keep myself safe. I didn't feel like I could survive without them.
Only problem was, I shut everything and everyone out. Not that there was actually many people involved in the first place however.

Alright, where to really start?.. Umm.. Oh! I know. The day I was kicked out seems like a nice place to start.

I was ten years old at the time. It was a Tuesday in October? I think? It was close to it anyway.
I had just walked home from school and I walked in to find a trashed house. My father was once again drunk. He turned a little, violent when he drank.
It was usually me that ended up being his punch bag. I remember it far better than I'd hope to.

I walked into the house and there was barely anything left standing. I was terrified as I looked around. The pictures had been torn off the walls and smashed to pieces.
The small table had been tipped over, spilling everything inside out. The things on top had cluttered to the floor, laying unrecognisable.

The TV in the living room looked like someone had put their foot through it. It's probably close to what actually happened to be fair.
Mom's flowers had been ripped apart. I'd not long since brought them back from near death. That was a waste of time.
The couch was tipped over and beaten beyond repair.

The kitchen looked like a bomb had gone off in it. There were knives, forks, plates, shattered of course, all over the floor.
The cupboards had been ripped off the walls and smashed. There were holes in the walls from where my father had put his fist through them. I hadn't seen him go to this extent before.

That's when he saw me. I was standing in the middle of the hall, tears streaming down my face. He approached me, stumbling a bit due to the alcohol and the debri.
But he got to me and pushed me against the wall.
He started hitting me, repeatedly.

I was still only small then, so I took triple the damage from the blows. He hit my head against the wall, making me crumple to the ground.
I was crying, I couldn't hold it back. It was from both pain and pure fear. I.. I remember managing to run upstairs at some point during his shouting.

Mind, the upstairs hadn't gotten off lightly. It looked just as bad as the lower floor.
I hid in my room, managing to block the door with the remains of the desk and the bed. It didn't hold long though. And I was tired from trying to move them in the first place.

He started beating the door. The man who was supposed to be my father was on a rage to kill me.
He kept beating the door, making my wailing increase, along with my terror.
He broke through the door, locking eyes with me almost instantly. I.. I couldn't move. I was too scared to even breath.

Then I heard something through his yelling. There was a second voice below. My father hadn't registered it yet.
That was fortuitous to say the least. But, I was still too scared to call to them. It didn't matter though. The voice was already moving up the stairs.

It was our neighbour. He had heard the commotion from his house and thought he'd better investigate. He had grabbed a piece of wood from the landing and wacked the back of my father's head with it.
He fell to the floor, unconscious. The neighbour, Paul? I think his name was. I'm not entirely certain though, he had his hand outstretched to me.

He told me he was taking me somewhere safe. Away from that trash that I called father.
It wasn't long before the police got involved. They arrested my father, promising that I'd never have to see him again.
There was even a hospital trip for me. I broke several ribs and some other stuff.

The exact injuries are a little faded from my mind.
I was eventually put into care. I.. I didn't have the best experience. The first place I got put in, the owner was just like my father.
But he did it more slyly. He would beat me when no one was around.

He would put cigarettes out on the bottom of my feet. My back was covered in lashes and scars. I ran away several times.
But every time I was found and taken back. It was around the thirteenth time that anyone actually took any notice of what I was saying.

An enquiry was carried out, and apparently I wasn't the only one. He was arrested and I moved onto the next place.
I only lasted about a month I think. This carried on until I was twelve, maybe the beginning of my thirteenth year.

I got kicked out of my eighth home. The people who ran it.. They were wretched. They beat me, stole from me. Lied to and about me.
I'd finally fought back and they kicked me out, telling authorities that I'd ran away.
I had nowhere to go, nothing to my name. I was homeless.

I survived though. I survived on the streets on my own for two fucking years. Two years of fucking hell. I'd learned a lot, I can't lie about that. Nothing you'd learn in school, oh no. You'd have to live on the streets for those kind of lessons.

I'd hidden away under a bridge. It was near a shopping district though, so there were always people splashing the cash.
I was cold, all the time. And hungry. But I fucking survived. It came to an end though. The police had been looking for me. They didn't exactly look very well then.

TWO FUCKING YEARS I WAS ON THE STREETS!  The cops round here are useless, I swear.
But.. I was sent to a final house. I wasn't alone. And the people were nice.
They were on the elderly side. But they were good people. They'd apparently fostered hundreds of kids that went on to live pretty good lives.

There were three other kids there too. At the time, but it changed here and there.
But the constants were David, he preferred Dave. Elisabeth, she preferred Eli. And Simon, he preferred Simon.
Ew, such a bad joke.

I was, fifteen when I settled in that house.
Im now early sixteen and I'm being forced to go to school. Yaaaaaay.

But anyway..  That's my life. Not very eventful, right. The gods must have been drunk when they decided to map out my life.
Its a fucking joke. And not a good one. But that's the past.. Now? Well...

(Clay's pov)

I had a hand wrapped tightly around the strap of my rucksack. My fingers fidgeting every moment they had. My head was held low, I did the same with my eyes.
The building was alive with bustling bodies, rushing to get to their next location. But naturally, they each took a good look at me before passing.

That only worsened my crushing anxiety.
So.. This is high-school? Seems.. Evil.
That's when I felt two hands on my shoulders. I jumped and turned around to look at the person behind me.
"Alright, on you go." She said in a tired voice. It hid a sense of darkness in it however.

I didn't trust this woman. Not one bit.
"I'll pick you up later." And with that, she left.
But I knew that she was probably still watching me to make sure that I actually went inside.
Fuck.. This was going to be hell.