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The last words of a dying man. Part one.


I remember every single detail of my sad and short life. From the time I entered the world up to this very point. My childhood life was a sad one. No body would choose me for any sport games or anything actually. I wasn’t exactly the most popular one out of my time but I was a hard worker. By the time I was seven I was on the top of my class… Those minor things made me want to live out my life. One of the more tragic days of my life was when I turned three. It was one of the…lesser details in life that I decided to keep for whatever reason I had. Also before I tell you this story I would like to point out that if you’re reading this then you’re reading the very last thing I wrote. I never wrote a will due to the fact I had no one in this dark place we call home.
For whatever reason I have is my own and no one else’s of why I decided to end my life on this day. My birthday, which were some of the most tragic days I have ever had to face…Those were the days when both my parents would pretend to be able to stand each other. Whenever they stood in the same room you could feel the tension rise. You could feel their hatred towards each other easily. It was funny, when two people drink to much how anything could happen, and they wouldn’t say anything until something major was discovered. Well in my case, they made me. I was a mistake from the start.
My birthdays always ended in my ‘parents’ fighting and the guests getting scared and running off, they always made the same excuses each time they came. This time my parents little showdown caused me to be put into an orphanage. I got hit in the back of my head. I needed several stitches and my mom went to jail. No one would adopt me. They believed that I would cause to much trouble and turn out to be a drunken a** just like my parents were. I never drank or talked to people so they were always wrong. All the other orphans tried to be nice to me but the black eyes and bloody noses would keep them away from me.
I was put into a foster home because the orphanage believed me to be the devil. The nuns would keep me in my room most of the time. They said it was for my own good. That normally meant that they were afraid of me and thought I would cause the next Holocaust. I didn’t hate people to that extent, something a little less maybe. I also never loved, most likely my parents fault again.