After reading that dark passage you may be wondering, 'what is it that makes this struggling author any different from the millions of others suffering from the same social prejudices, most in ways much more severe?'

Nothing. I am not in any way special. Overdone. Boring, mundane, normal.

But is it normal for me to feel the way I do, to swing from a satisfied state to rage, to become so full of grief that I can only claw my way through each painful moment? 

On behalf of all of the 'normal' people in the world, I genuinely hope not. 

The issues I will present to you in this piece are the kind I have always avoided, skirted around while glancing uneasily at all present. 

I used to be afraid of saying the wrong thing, of offending those who didn't give a damn whether I was just another classmate or a deranged psychopath. 

I doubt anybody cares about anything I think. But I do, I completely and utterly do as it is what is eating away at me like a flesh-ravaging disease.

 My ability to shape words is nullified when my usual composure is lost. I can no longer think enough to work at threading each delicate sentence together, to rhyme and compliment when my heart is burning in my throat and my fingers pounding away at the keys of my laptop. 

That is me at this point in time. I desperately want to please what little readers I may have, in a final attempt to be accepted, something that has dug its way under my scalp and burrowed through bone to dig metal claws into my withering mind. 

For each letter that comes out of my soul and into this probably-to-be-neglected work, I apologize. Sorry if I bothered you, made you shake your head in disgust at the poor form and mad ramblings of a shattered soul. 

Don't read this if it disturbs you, or wastes your precious time. After all, I am only another insignificant fourteen year-old who cries in the closet and puts an emotionless mask on when the haven of that closet door is lost.

I don't matter. Neither does my writing, probably. I have childishly dreamed of getting published, becoming a bestseller, tearfully accepting award upon award. 

I still have yet to realize that, in this world, it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter that you grew up in a violent household, that as you grow older restrictions tighten around your neck like a noose, that everyone around you is blazing mad and you are the only sane one left with said sanity clutched desperately to your chest. Nobody cares

These days the only 'famous' authors are those who write books with no real substance to them, flimsy tales of teenage boys and girls trying to act like men and women. The kind that have a squealing fanbase and were written in such language and such thought only to actually be comprehensible to the ever-dim youth of today. 

Written, of course, in the only two languages that teenagers understand today. Violence and sex. 

In real life, vampires wouldn't sparkle. They'd scream and burn in the sunlight as they burst into flames, withering into nothing but ash. They would believe themselves to be the evolution of man or God-sent beings who were superior to our filthy race. Cullen would have slashed Bella's throat before she had a chance to check him out. 

Werewolves wouldn't be sculpted young men who morphed into lean wolves, but twisted-looking people who turned into terrifying man-hounds. They sure as hell wouldn't be crushing on some plain-Jane loser and getting all angsty about how life sucks. Those werewolves would probably be focusing on keeping away from the despicable humans of our time and planning for their revolution.

Society would never accept a fight to the death with a bunch of teenagers in it. As revolting as many people are, as blood-lusting, there are limits. Everything in the media is 'prettied up'. Notice how in the Hunger Games movie, Katniss was hairless even before they waxed her. 

Way to be realistic. Since when does some poor poacher have the money to journey to the spa for hair removal? Total garbage.

It seems that we have suddenly drifted away from the subject of my childhood. Let us pause, drink in the insanity that is the world, and move away from my sudden rant.

This chapter has grown unprecedentedly long. I suppose I do that quite a bit, write so little when writing without substance and then not knowing when to stop. As unrelated as most of this seems, it is all me. 

This, this crumbling wasteland that you see materialize around you, is my mind. Every word here is another seam in the ground, another rock or bloodstain. 

I put myself into this grave. Now it is my responsibility to fight out of it even as stone and earth cave down onto my battered form. 

I had started this chapter in the hopes of covering my early childhood. It is quite clear that I have not achieved that, but I suppose it could be worse.

When you're me, second in line to the proverbial chopping block throne, you know that it could always be worse. 

The End

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