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You Make Me Suicidal

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I remember my father's face every time he looked at me, with deep hatred and utter disgust. I don't know what I did to make him so mad, I was only four years old at the time. When I had built up the courage to ask, he said that it's because I was born then proceeded to slap me hard across the face, I hit the floor hard and as I sat back up I felt the blood dripping from my mouth. 

He reminds me about his contempt for me, with every agonizing moment spent with him, this went on for years. An entire three years of hell. He never let me forget and in those rare moments of peace when I could genuinely laugh or smile - he'd hit me, grabbing my hair, pushing me against the wall, if I'm lucky. When he's had a bad day it gets taken out on me, especially after a good number of sake bottles that pile up in the house. This house holds nothing but bad memories, the stench alone is enough to suffocate me, the place is a trash heap. Father says it's a paradise compared to his living trash, meaning me.... whenever father refers to trash or something distasteful and disgusting I already know he means me. Half the time, that's what he'll refer to me as instead of my actual name, other days, I'm not even allowed to call him Father just "Sir" or "Mr. Cauleas".... which is his last name.

I can't stand the thought of being related to a man like this, so in an attempt to seperate myself from him - in the only way I can - I use my mother's last name instead, which is the only thing keeping me sane for the moment..... I bet most normal four year old's wouldn't understand how horrible a father like him is.... but living in this house, under his so-called-care, my mind had to advance more quickly than my body and I learned how to read the signs my Father's body gives right before he goes for a hit or smackdown. Thankfully, I've saved myself from multiple trips to the infirmary than what I would've needed had he of been successful. Of course, I end up making up some excuse or another to stay in the hospital overnight so I wouldn't be forced to return any time soon, I despise the hospital but.... it's as good of a sanctuary as anywhere. At least in there, Father can't pull his usual crap. 

He calls me stupid but I'm a lot smarter than he gives me credit for..... which is the one of the only things I actually have confidence in. My brains. 

When I turned six years old, I'd already grown accustomed to his outbursts and mistreatment of me, in fact I now expected it to happen, unlike when I'd sit in my room praying to God that for one night he'd forget that I ever existed and leave me alone. My hopes always shattered when I'd hear the heavy footsteps and the door knob turning, the creak of it as it swings open wide, as he came over to my spot on my bed and began beating on me for no reason other than he was pissed the hell off by some whore. I'd choke back my tears and screams as he bloodies my smaller body. Thankfully, I'm no longer so Naive. Nevertheless..... I hate my life. I hate him.

I remember the last time I saw him too, the final night that my father appeared before my eyes. He came to my room that night, like he'd done so many times before, only, it was different this time..... he pinned me down, pulled out a pocket knife and rasped darkly at me, "If you scream I'll make it so much worse" He carved out a jagged line from the side of my left eye, down across my cheek, stopping at my chin, where I now bear a scar.... so that I'd never forget how he hated me and how I'd never be loved.

That night he vanished from my sight and never returned. I don't know where he went and I honestly don't care. He was gone, that was all that mattered. I was free. With this nasty scar as his final goodbye to me, for the first time in my life, I cried tears of joy. 



Flashforward eight years. I currently live alone in an apartment building, the threat of my father returning one day still weighing heavily on my mind. I know that just because he hasn't made an appearance yet, doesn't mean he can't or that he won't, I've always had the feeling that he'll pop up again someday when I least expect it and infest everything he touches just like an f-ing cockroach. No matter how much you wish death upon em' they just. won't. die!!!! 

Thankfully, I know that this time, I have the power to fight back. And also, that I won't have to face him alone. 

I have a brother now. His name is Naruto.