The youth I was gifted was tainted, I grew with slim fingers, I cracked them at the joints. I bit at my palms, my fingertips, anything and everything I could latch onto. I have urges to randomly scream, a problem with causing pain to those around me, whether it is deserved or not, a small place of psychotic in my left shoulder that always wanted to be rolled through, a love for books, writing and reading. A need for a new life, a new home, a portion of encouraged existence for myself.

I want to hear you calling, loud and furious into the deep sky that I used to call the cover. The cover of our sins, the hidden protection from all things evil. The evil things got to me, they wrapped me up slowly and took over our warm home and turned it into a place of misery and solitude, not the good kind. As much as you ignore the fact that it was you, you were the evil that stole me away from myself. I'm not sure how you will take this, as a scolding, perhaps a silent brush of comfort, maybe you'll take it as the forgiveness I can't seem to give you. You tore me to shreds, you ruined everything good. I am set of destroying you back my love. I am taking the one you love. I am running away.

I learned swiftly to stay still in your wild bursts of compressed vexation, the minutes you would loose yourself in words of exaggeration, your exhaust showed, sentences slurred together in what seemed like such an abate of concentration. Parts of your mind flew in different directions, I clutched on bed sheets I could use as a shield. You always told me I drove you wild, and in these moments you truly did look like a beast, and not the kind you pair with beauty. But, there I was, with the slim face you loved to feel, the hands that gave you comfort in the times following the beast breaking free. I was nothing but terrified, I feared the warnings, the shows I had watched with such a hard chest, the fear I recognized on actors faces, but I was not acting. Not even close to it. I thought maybe it would pass, that you would ease slowly from the flaming throne; but you seemed to be enjoying it. I knew it would be the last I could handle, a thunder of intense words, a vocabulary not large enough to make me feel as grim in the moment as your mind was always ready to down poor against yourself.

You always cried, after that is. You'd cry against me about the words in your head, the distracting way of life you lived. You say that they overflow, the mean things in your head, and sometimes, sometimes it's just too much. That always made me think about the animals you shoot on the weekends, you always come back smiling so full of existence, not at all like the empty shell you leave in. I only think of this due to the overflow, what if? What if you came home, the joy not yet consuming, and you decide to take a few shots at home. Waiting for the joy to reach you and fill your stomach with warmth. I worry that someday in the distant future that you would come, and shoot me in the heart just like you do to those animals. To feel the joy you always receive once you feel them stop their hollow breaths and I worry for my own hollow breaths.

It happened in the library, maybe that's the place they realized the two needed to plan. The library is where it all started, where it all came to a dark ending. Shots had been fired, children had been murdered, lives were to be scared for the rest of eternity, they still share pictures, they share tears. The students that day in the library can protest the nature of it, Sixteen year olds will cry out the evil nature behind those who taunted them with bullets. Eric and Dylan had such an imagination, or maybe that is what their parents told friends when they were children. Nowadays Dylan's mother is apologizing publicly to those her son had hurt. To the children lost because of what she had created and loved. Eric is left forgotten in his family, or so it appears, they ignore him to the best of their abilities, nobody can forget the way his laugh sounded underneath the spray of bullets, nobody can forget the thirteen bodies Eric and his best friend left behind. Most even got a glimpse of the last bodies to fall, Eric and Dylan's that is. The last two shots in that library were directed towards their own heads, Eric through the top, Dylan to his mouth. The library is where it happened. The library is where most cannot seem to enter.

It was hot, sticky without a breeze in the slasher film themed bedroom, the girl in the middle of it sobbed. Her tears leave clean skin as a roadway along all the dirt and splattered gore on her small face. She could feel it all dripping, from her hair to her shoulders, the tips of her slim fingers onto the wooden floor. The blood. Scrunched off to the side of the room was the producer of it all. The man who had given her the clothes she wore, the food gurgling in her stomach, the one who created every eyelash the tears hung to. Left stabbed and brutalized in his little girls room, the room he painted blue to match those sparkling eyes of hers, it was stained red. All because he could not stop, not when she screamed, not when she cried, not even with the first slice. Distastefully he had gotten too used to the way she felt, he touched and would not stop. The girl had grown into hate and overall a gruesome look at the people and visions around her. Her birthright was to be loved and to love others, he had taken all of that from her. Left her with a pain so deep, and he enjoyed it. So, she made sure she would enjoy the anguish she caused him. 

It swallowed me whole in one big gulp, I hadn't ever imagined to see such horror, agony caused by a women who was supposed to shelter me from the indiscretions from the bully we call Earth. I didn't understand the loss I had just gained until the first night, the lampshade lighten room as I laid down feeling everything I had ignored for the day form into one. I had come home early that morning happy to imagine the comfort I would be receiving from my mother only to get no such feeling, instead I gain a cold form of her in my mind as I grip the slim part of her arm, informing the woman on the phone that there is nothing there, she is cold, that I cannot bare to touch her anymore. I play the thought over and over in my small mind, I see the gorgeous shade of blue I might ever have gotten the chance to see, but it is radiating off her beautiful skin and I cannot seem to look with an artistic eye at the memory. Death deserves nothing but tears, there cannot be anything found in the wake of it other than a follow up of silence and ignorant to lose handling the blue skin in their dreams, because I know that is all I could see of her for months after. How pretty she had looked, how everything had looked so normal to me, that I had not expected a thing. I had not ever regretted coming home that morning, even in my waves of ultimate sadness, hatred, everything arduous, I have not ever regretted being the last to see my loving mother, my only savior in the world I could not stand.