I did it.

He poked and prodded and pointed and laughed.
For one full year he stood beside me
Not with me or for me but beside me

No one has ever been with me and waned to be with me
The mother that I killed through birth was forsaken long ago by the father I never knew
Those that picked over the rubble of my life to be never wanted the full package but only the compensation money and I came with, the discarded wrapper on a confectionary so sweet that they forgot what they were supposed to be doing

He laughed his possum laugh, mocking without words, passion without love
Only an irrational, unthinking urge to make the lonely boy feel more trapped and unwanted than he has all of his life

An urge reciprocated from a blackhole household much like mine
Eating and eating emotions, stripping you down till only your inner-most thoughts remain naked and starving, on display for others to giggle and chatter at

I will not hit him

I will not hit him

I think and tell myself but it does not quell my instinctual violence, always goaded on by the poison that spills like vomit from his own troubled mind.

I want to hit him

He is always there like a cancer, only growing larger and more painful every single day
He is the illness without cure other than the cutting out of the diseased flesh that has latched onto my very existence

I will hit him

He pushed me
He pushed me too far
Gone are my thoughts of self-preservation and care
Gone are my own mental restraints as I find him after school waiting for me, thinking that I won't hit back like all the other times he has tried to beat me

I have hit him

I hit him before he could say anything, wiping that self-satisfied, bloated smirk off of his face and replacing it with one of terror
I hit him again
And again
I hit him until he falls over, get on top of him and hit him again

I pound my fists into him until we both bleed and then I hit him some more
I feel no pain from the chips of teeth stuck in my hand, nor for the skin that has burst like a blister across my knuckles, my only feeling is regret that my arms are not strong enough to go on hitting and a bitter taste at the realisation that fatigue will set in long before his face is broken

Finally his screams have brought someone and they have brought others, others who call the authorities and who pins me to the ground with many bodies

I hate them

They stopped me from exacting the amount of pain he caused me in the long term by means of the short term

He is now broken like a horse, now in his place and I am in mine, locked in my own bathroom writing this as they try to get the door open


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