They say death is the worst thing that can happen to a person. Yet everyday I ask myself the same question. Is it though? Is death worse than living through the pain of life? I don't think so.
A house in the woods that's where I lived. It might as well have been a timber shed it was so small but my mother liked it. It kept her distant from the rest of the world, away from anyone who could hurt her again. People like that aren't easy to avoid. The man that hurt my mother ruined everything about our family, tore us to pieces through manipulation and conflict. He ruined my sisters strong confidence and destroyed the flame in my soul.
He ruined a lot of things.
Every now and then I'd think of him. The things he did to me, the things he made me do, the people and animals I hurt because of him. The guilt almost drove me to insanity. They deserved better but better is not what I could have given them. No matter how hard I worked, how great my grades were, how focused on my education I was it didn't matter. After all I was insignificant, merely a worker ant, destined to work and then die at the end of my misery life. At least that's what he used to tell me. But this story isn't about him and I don't want it to be. This story is about somebody I met who became a huge part of my life and changed my life forever. Someone who changed my view on the world, gave me strength and relief but also for a small amount of time made me work for this strength. He changed who I was and brought to life a new experience for me. A life of isolation and freedom. A life I couldn't control but could create. A year and a half in the friend zone.
