Out of all the bullshit ideas that Henry's had in the past, this has seriously got to be the worst. Someone please tell me how in the hell "getting my feelings out on paper" is going to help me survive the fucking apocalypse. The only reason I agreed to do this is so that I could have five minutes a day without him screaming at me for fucking something up.
Nothing I ever do is good enough for him. I go to the school like he tells me, yet my grades aren't high enough for him. I wash our clothes like he tells me, yet they never seem to get clean enough. Hell, I sit perfectly fucking still like he tells me, yet I still manage to piss him off by doing something wrong. I bet if he read what I'm writing here he'd tell me that I'm "documenting my feelings" wrong. He probably just wants my to talk about how miserable everything around me makes me. Well, if that's how Henry wants it, that's how Henry will fucking get it.
My name is Sam. I'm twelve years old, and I'm living in absolute hell. You would think that my parents couldn't keep their damn pants on long enough to think about how terrible it would be bringing a child into this war zone we call Earth. Well, believe it or not, here I am. Henry was lucky enough to at least be alive for a few years before the outbreak occurred. I was born in the a dead heat of it all. I walk past men and women everyday who have the nerve to discuss "how much they miss big juicy steaks on the grill," or to ask each other, "remember before, when there was no seven o' clock curfew and we could be out partying as late as we want?" Well guess what, people: I don't miss it, and I don't remember, because I never had the opportunity to live it.
Most people had glimpses of heaven before their life went to complete hell. I never knew a time where I didn't need proper identification to travel more than a hundred yards from my house. I never knew a time where people didn't have to nearly kill each other over a half of a peanut butter sandwich. I never knew a time where you could walk outside knowing that death wasn't awaiting you at every corner.
That's why I think that I have it the worst out of anyone in the Hartford Quarantine Zone. Being the only kid here, everyone else has lived plenty of years before the outbreak, leaving them with hundreds of happy memories to escape into to avoid going completely insane. They don't realize how fucking lucky they are. They can find comfort in knowing that their lives weren't always completely shitty; I can't, and that's why I fucking hate my parents.
It was so reckless and insensitive of them to bring another human being into the world during a time like this. I hate them for not even stopping to think what I would have to go through growing up. I hate them for making it even harder on their 13 year old first born, who already had to endure 8 years of the outbreaks. And most of all, I hate them for running off and joining the Fireflies.
There I was, an oblivious seven year old, believing every adult I knew when they told me that "the government is here to help us," and "the government will keep you safe," only to see my parents join the side of those going against the government. When this happened, the sliver of hope that I had for a safe and fulfilling life was completely obliterated. I had no idea who I should and shouldn't trust, or what to believe in or what not to believe in. I hated my parents for wrecking my mind beyond repair, not even thinking twice about it, and my hatred toward them grows more and more each day.
And that's why I'm glad that they're dead...
...Happy now, Henry?