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Array
(
[sid] => 133354
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Hate Unbound
[time] => 2007-04-08 00:11:10
[hometext] => A little harsh and a lot of murder in this one.
[bodytext] => Hatred runs through my heart, unadulterated anger has stained my soul. Spite makes it way through my veins, unchecked it has caused grief to those around me. Yet…I could care less, because the people around me are the people that cause all of the misery in my life. Years ago, I felt like life would turn out great for me; I believed that the world was in my hands. Then the abuse began; the names I was called, the bruises I wore for the world to see, the anger building inside. I bottled that anger and kept it deep inside of me, nurturing it, loving it. I felt like a proud parent watching a child grow, caring for it until it would one day grow and make me proud. Then the day came, the day that all of the anger and hate exploded. Visions of death danced in my mind, my sight was covered in a mist of blood-red. I stabbed and I bludgeoned; I strangled and I shot, until all the rage had dissipated, leaving me a hollow husk of my former self. I stood breathless in the middle of a blood-stained room; the walls a masterpiece of gore and agony. All around me were the bodies of all of the people who had made my life the living hell that it had become, but they didn’t look so scary now. I looked at each of them in turn. My father, the clothesline still hanging from around his throat, his eyes blood-red from the intense pressure I had put on the rope; he always told me that I would never be anything, that no one would ever love me. My mother, lying up against the wall, a bullet hole where her left eye had been; the woman who gave me life and then tried to stab me with a knife while I was still in the womb. My older brother, his head caved in from the countless number of baseball bat hits to the skull, a puddle of gore pooling around his body; he had always hit and beat on me, I never went a day in my life without some kind of wound that he had inflicted upon me. And finally, my younger sister, the thirty seven stab wounds to her body still draining the blood from her; she had taken my place as the favorite, she had caused my parents to not love me anymore. Never again would I have to deal with the pain and terror of living in the same house as them. I never had any good memories of my family, so I didn’t linger long in the blood-streaked room. I walked out to the garage and lowered to bay door and locked the door that led into the house behind me. I opened the door to the car that no one had driven in years, the gun I had used still in my hands. I looked at myself in the mirror of the car, the dark circles under my eyes very pronounced. I wouldn’t go to prison; because I had done what I believed was right. No one would chastise me for doing the thing that I believed was judgment, judgment for pain, humiliation, and despair. I heard the sirens coming up the road toward the house, one of the neighbors had called the cops. I placed the gun in my mouth and took a last look at my reflection in the rear-view mirror. I smiled as the smell of gunpowder invaded my senses. I pulled the trigger and thought no more. [comments] => 1 [counter] => 200 [topic] => 13 [informant] => trackiller2006 [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => DarkPoetry )
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