I hate my life.
This may sound like a wishful youth, aspiring to break free of their humdrum life and enter into the fantasies that they create in their own minds. It often is heard from one who grows weary of the indulgence in life that they are granted, and rather wishes of a life full of hardship and strife, of adventure and love. It comes from those who wish to be admired and revered without the hard work that becomes necessity. Yes, my statement is very similar to those people that cannot comprehend the luxuries that they have been given, but it is not so. I think this, as I find myself walking home from school.
By now, I perceive, that throughout your lifetime you have read many books containing hardships. Many times the protagonist is beaten, unloved, and used as a toy by those who hold the power. This lifestyle has often been exalted, and many wish as though they had experienced that in life. They begin to think that experience as blessed. I can only wish it were so.
To be subjected to these hardships is a constant battle, it wears away at both your mind and your body. I suppose that the mental battle is the worst of all. Eventually, you start to realize that even your mind is not your own, but rather the play-thing of your oppressors. They begin to weave their way throughout your thoughts, you begin to perceive that you deserve what they have done to you, you think that you are worthless, and that you would be better if you were dead.
I wish I could tell you there was an escape. Maybe there is, for you, but I know that there is none for me. This life has caged me, and I will never escape, for my cage is the mental sort. I also wish I could assure you that I am a good person, but, alas, this as well is only a wish of my imagination. I am instead simply trying to survive, doing whatever I can to achieve this. I would like to be one of the heroes that roam the streets at night, fighting villains in the name of justice, but I’m afraid I might be one of the reasons they have to fight. A new thought entered my mind, as I turned the street corner, ignoring the sounds of the city.
I’ve never felt as though I were home in this world. I only know the familiar feeling of belonging from the books I’ve been able to grasp. I’ve only seen the happy faces of home through my own imagination. I’ve only experience happily ever after from eyes other than my own.
Rather, I’ve spent my whole life on the run, while still getting nowhere. I go to school and run. Even in the sweet solitude of my very own mind, I find that I have to run from myself.
Quite honestly, it’s not easy. Granted, it would be probably be slightly easier if I did not live in the crime hotspot of the world.
At least it helps to bring rent down. Who would be crazy enough to voluntarily live in this madhouse city of Gotham? My parents apparently.
I stepped up to the dirty red door of my apartment, and glanced at the numbers that were displayed on it.
I found myself acutely aware of a man standing against a pole, several feet away from me. One of my father’s spies.
My father kept a constant surveillance over my actions. He wanted me to be good, or at least, his twisted version of good. In exchange for being “good,” I had this small amount of liberty. It also meant I wasn’t locked up in a test tube all day. I didn’t have the luck of superpowers, or saviors like Project Kr did. I wasn’t that lucky, or important apparently.
I took out a key of my dirty, worn jeans, and unlocked the door. I pushed open the door to find a dirty, trashed house. Looks like my mother was home.
I quietly closed the door behind me, in case my mother was asleep. Sighing, I set my backpack down, and slowly began to pick up the trash, and broken dishes that scattered the floor. The good thing about small spaces is that they are easier to clean.
I found my mother in her room. She had appeared to be passed out, barely missing her ragged bed.
When I was finished, I gazed about my room in satisfaction. I reached inside of my backpack, and grabbed homework for the day. Since I had passed High School a while ago, I found my Sophomore homework boring and monotonous. For me, this work was extremely easy. The only reason I was subjected to this waste of time was because it was a great cover. In this town it would be strange for one to be homeschooled, or to have graduated at a young age. We can’t have anyone notice something strange.
Not that they would care anyways.
I was finishing my homework when I heard a knock at the door.
I felt the familiar pain of anxiety grip the muscles in my gut. The only person who ever knocked at that door was my father. I stood from the seat I was sitting in, my feet frozen to the floor.
I had seen many horrific things in my life. I have fought hundreds of battles. Both external and physical. Every single thing never phased me. I was very rarely scared of anything, except for people. My father in particular.
The father that happened to be at the door at this very moment.
Another loud knock resounded at the door, making me jump. I took another deep breath, forcing the movement of my feet. I stepped to the door, and slowly turned the handle, feeling the cold metal pierce through my skin.
As soon as the door opened a crack, a man barged into the room. I jumped back, inexplicable terror overwhelming my thoughts. He was tall, 6ft tall, while I dwelt at 5” 5’.
My father made noo notice of me, but instead took a few strides to the kitchen counter. He set atop of the counter a briefcase. After opening it, he carelessly dropped several plastic bags filled with a white powdery substance.
My mother’s payment.
Every time my father visited, he was required to give my mother a payment. This, was a bribe so that my mother would in turn keep quiet about my father’s visits and allow him to do anything he wanted to me. Instead of money, which was a typical choice of most people, my father paid my mother is drugs.
My father turned towards me, fixing his hard blue eyes upon me. “Let’s go, Yara.” He gruffly commanded me, before leaving the apartment, keeping the door ajar. I wish he wouldn’t use my name.
I hate my life.