I used to be normal. I had a normal house, normal friends, a normal childhood, normal fears. I mean, everybody has a healthy fear of the dark. It’s normal. Everything was – for lack, or care, of finding a better word – absolutely and wonderfully normal.
And then everything changed.
My mom left my dad for some fat, red-haired dick head with two red-haired dick head kids. I have absolutely nothing against red heads. Before I was forced out of my home, and my school, and my normal life, my best friend was a red head. But imagine being bullied day and night, not by one, or two, but three red haired dick-faced assholes. Imagine the feeling of desperation and isolation as you watch from your window as your mom’s car backs out of the driveway, and you close your eyes and can count down, in seconds, the moment until two, overweight, sexually ambiguous curly haired goons beat your door in and hold your face down on your bed…
If this were a movie you would have seen me walking away from the house covered in blood. Not my blood, their blood, with a big evil smile on my face. I pictured that moment every time my screaming would capture the attention of their pathetic fat fucking father and he would walk in to break things up, only to slap me for not being able to defend myself. In my daydreams I would kill him first. While his kids watched, waiting for their turn.
You get the point.
Alexander Pritchett. Ollie Pritchett. Sammy Pritchett.
Dead. In that order. Do not tell my psychiatrist I said that.
It was only three months, but it was a significant and scarring three months for an eleven year old boy. After three months of begging my mom not to leave, catching her alone in solitary corners of the house, crying to her to listen to me, my mother died, leaving me in a state which I can only describe as traumatizing.
But it was only after that when the real trauma started.
To be continued…Ethan Owens