Home. Home, sweet home. So they say.
I have never heard such a lie in all my life.
Have you ever been at the point of absolute devastation? At the point of such depression, you become physically sick? It's much worse than that. My name is Devin. You'll probably hate me. Everybody does. This is my story. Read it. It is not enticing. It is not a masterpiece. But it is true.
Well...let me introduce you to my family. My father is a drunk, and my mother is dead. She died when I was very young. And my father, that abusive creature, says that she died of a heart attack. Struck in the middle of the night. He says she never felt a thing. That her death was painless.
But I know better.
She is not dead. She has run away from our pitiful home. I would to, but that, unfortunately, is not likely to happen. I rarely leave our small apartment, and when I do, it is only under careful supervision from my father. I am his slave. When I do not obey him, I am beaten. Would you like me to show you my bruises? I am damaged. I am broken. I am only a small, shattered fragment of a human. I have little education, but I can read and write.
I must go now. My father will return to our apartment very soon. He has probably been at the local bar. Perhaps running from the police. It wouldn't be the first time. Perhaps we can talk tomorrow? If only for several minutes. I would treasure time with anybody besides my father. I know it is selfish of me. To ask of something that cannot be gotten back. Your time, and love. But I need it ever so much. I need it now more than ever.
Did you hear that? That was the slam of the door. My father has come back. Perhaps tomorrow?
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