Every writer starts somewhere. Everyone starts for their own reason. I suppose that's how anyone does anything.. they have to start, they have a reason even if they don't think they do. In fact, I'd argue that having no reason is a reason.
I won't go into the specifics but everything, everything happens for a reason.
My writing started as a cruel joke. My life was hell. I got bullied, beat up, made fun of, and once I got home, nothing was any better. In fact, it was worse.
The one and only place I had that should have been my safe place away from the cruel world was in no way safer than the world my home should have been shielding me from.
A dark, cold, and dangerous place. A drunkard and abusive father, and a mother who cared more about pleasing her abusive husband than taking care of her child, or even just herself.
The details of life at home are probably too graphic to go into detail but.. bruises rarely had time to heal, and growing up… no, I've always been tired.
My only solace was reading books. It required me to speak to no one, and because it kept me quiet, I didn't disturb anyone. I could find a small space to hide in or under and read for hours.
It was hard at first, boring, I cried a few times as well, humans are social creatures by nature, never were they meant to be alone.. much less children. Nonetheless, as time passed, so did that loneliness and sadness.
The books became more interesting and before I knew it, 1 or 2 books wasn't enough. I finished books at a rapid pace and my desire for more grew along with the chapters in each book.
However, good things are never meant to last. As I got older, the books became too much. My favourite characters would always die and the stories all seemed to be practically the same.
Hell, even the story of my life sounds like at least 10 other classic protagonist backstories. However, this is real life and I am not the protagonist of this story.
Even with the vast imagination that I've gained after years of reading… I still cannot dream of a story, even my own.. in which I would be the protagonist.
You must be thinking "Yeah yeah, enough with the cliche trauma dumpy life story. Get to the point." and you're right.
It's been a long time since I've "spoken" to anyone and this story is a bit exciting for me, I suppose.
I began writing after I stopped reading. I was so fed up from all of the emotional and mental pain and stress caused by reading, because even the one thing I had to distract me from my life had become just another thing to hate.
I hated authors who seemed to derive some form of sexual pleasure from traumatising their own creations and upsetting readers.
I hated my father who chose addiction over family and felt like a man the more he raised his hand to his wife and son.
I hated my mother who refused to leave, refused to listen to advice, refused to get help, refused to care about me or even herself. I think I may have even hated her more than my father.
I hated the children who bullied me, making themselves feel better by picking on someone simply because I wasn't as fortunate as they were, and I hated the kids who didn't bully me but never helped or even offered to console me even once, simply watching in silence.
I hated the teachers that ignored the school violence that happened in front of them, because the bruises I left school with were just from "playing too roughly" but somehow they felt like the bruises I came to school with were too much.
I hated them because whenever they interfered with my home life out of their half-assed concern, it would result in me getting beat more violently, and then starved and cursed at.
All for something I never asked them to do, while being blamed as if I had been the one to do something wrong.
I wrote.. to escape.. but not in the way that you think. I never intended for it to become a hobby. I definitely never expected it to become a job.
I still remember that night. I was hurting all over to the point that breathing felt painful. I felt sick, nauseous even. My hands were shaky and bloody, and I felt exhausted. Mentally, physically.
Even emotionally. I was so tired.. I'm always tired. Even if I sleep, I'm still tired. I wish I could sleep. I wanted to sleep. Forever.
If you haven't understood it yet, that night, I don't even know why I did it but, I wrote a letter, two letters actually. 1 to my mother and 1 that I placed in the kitchen on the countertop.
In case my father woke up and saw the letter first, throwing it away, I wanted at least my mother to know. The note was short and straight to the point. I was leaving.
Not just running away, but leaving. I placed the notes and then left, it was easy to leave the house.
It's easy to disappear when no one is paying attention, easy to leave when no one is there to care.
I went to school that night and after digging a hole under the fenced gate and getting in, I easily made my way to the school rooftop.
If you're wondering why I went to the school, honestly it wasn't for attention or to make anyone feel guilty or traumatised. Honestly, I didn't care, no one else was ever on my mind.
I just went to the school because it was the only familiar place, and the tallest building I knew how to get into without getting caught. That's why.
That was the night, at around midnight.. I should have lost my life.
I don't remember what happened after that. When I woke up, almost 3 years had passed, and a lot had changed. For one, my mother and father were both dead, or at least assumed to be.
My house had burned down and my father's carcass was discovered charred.. my mother's body was never found but they had assumed that like everything else, she must have burned in the fire.
I think that usually when someone's family dies, they are supposed to inherit money, even just a bit.. but my family didn't have insurance, or money, not even a little. Maybe that's why I inherited their debt.
At the age of 12, I became an orphan, and from then, I was forced to work using my body to repay the debt my father left behind.
Originally, my mother was paying with her body but since she was nowhere to be found, it became my job. Not legally of course, but then again, these were no ordinary loan sharks.
These were yakuza. Father had apparently not only been a drunk, but a gambling addict as well.
He had a run-in with the yakuza and incurred quite a large debt with them, and obviously being unable to pay, he forced his wife, my mother, to sell her body in order to help him pay back the debt.
I don't know whether to be happy that it was just that and not my organs and limbs… or if I should have preferred that.. regardless.
I'm 22 now, the debt is finally paid off, it's been paid off for a few days.. and now, I'm writing again. This time.. will be the last time. For sure.