' 4 '

Fleurie's point of view:

My brother Ryan and I were quite close. When we were kids and mum

was still around, we used to do everything together, from bathing with

our ducks to getting each other in trouble and being mischievous.

He was with me every second of my life until I was eight years old when

everything changed: my mother left, my father arrived became a violent

scumbag, and my brother fled. When he fled, he left me a letter.

He said that he couldn't handle it any longer, from the violence of my

father and the death of our mother and that he was going to ask for

help and come back for me.

He never came back. Just like my mother.

I simply wanted to know whether he ever thought about me. Why did

he leave when he knew the scumbag was violent? Was he ever

considerate about the torture I would receive? or was everything a

sham? Was I a mistake, as this scumbag claimed? Was it entirely my

fault? What did I do to earn it?

I hurried out of school like there was no tomorrow. I was humiliated,

embarrassed, furious, and sad.

He was mortified about the ugly scars and wounds on my face, I am

really mad and in rage because of a monster who gave me those scars.

I didn't want him to see me like that. I didn't want that guy to see me all

bruised up and scarred.

I don't want to see that look on his face. The pained gaze.

I don't know why. I don't know why I am feeling like this. I don't know

why that guy is making me feel like this.

I came to a halt and began walking. My tears are falling and I don't

know how to stop them.

I checked the time and guess what, I'm late; I'll probably receive some

punches and kicks, and you can conjure up any image of torture that

will ever come to mind

I went to the front door, hoping he wasn't there. I'm not sure whether

I'll ever be able to call it home; it should be called hell.

I opened the door and removed my worn-out converse.

I just felt a sting on my face, and I was having an intimate time with the

wall I was slammed into, how funny.

"What's the matter with you being late?" Pulling on my hair, he shouted

at me, knowing he'll never receive a response. He tosses me across the

room, landing on the cold floor, kicking one, two, three times till I lost

count; he may have broken one of my ribs. He never stopped kicking.

I can hear him zipping his pants back on and leaving me on the floor in

which form I was born, my vision obscured by weeping.

Standing on the icy floor, I made my way to my room to wash and clean

up. What else would you notice if you glanced in the mirror at my

features? A slashed lip, a large black and blue eye, and a shattered rib.

Grabbing the razor, and abusing my wrists is all I can do to make myself

feel satisfied and numb. I started doing it because I felt like all of my

tension was being replaced by tranquillity.

I finished, cleaned up, and changed into my pyjamas so that the

blackness could carry me away from it all.

I want to die.

I want to die.

I want to die.

I want to die.