No day would pass without him breaking down to tears. He tried defending himself, but it ended up with him being further hurt. He tried many times to resist, but they won. They made him turn against himself. He hated his life.
Every day, he had to deal with hatred. Verbal and written and actions were ways that worked together to pound his vulnerable feelings. He was originally not weak. He was just outnumbered and alone. The world against him, that’s what he felt. That could not be far-off from reality.
He was teased for being excessively skinny. He was called anorexic. A freak. Everybody took the time throwing him those hurtful labels. But nobody took time to know what was real. And the truth was, he had an eating disorder.
He was called a hideous monster. A scar tracing from his left cheek up to his left eye captured everyone’s negative impression. He was proclaimed the ugliest by those with heavy make-up. He used to bring his head down, not wanting anybody to see his face. His face was once genuinely charming, but ruined by a knife held by his father’s strong abusive hands.
He failed his tests. But he was far-off from stupid. He was once the most curious, the most interested. But all was gone when he lost his beloved mother. He lost focus. He had more things to think about. He spent more time applying peroxide and antiseptic solutions to open cuts than scanning books with side notes.
He once had a crush. He was just a teenager after all. He used to have a clean sheet of paper in which he would write the name of the boy who made his heart palpitate. He used to doing it secretly, but he was caught. His secret was exposed, arousing disgust, unacceptance and prejudice.
He dealt with hatred twice as much he used to get. The teasing became worse. They spat at him things that can never be true. He was accused of being an element of the devil. He was called the abomination of the community. He was treated like a disease.
He endured not only emotional but most often physical pain. He was shoved. When he would fall, nobody would pick him up. Instead, they stepped on him like dirt. He was beaten by boys his age. They were unforgiving. His blood was their favourite scenery. His begs and cries were their music. His every agony was their happiness.
He had a house, but not a home. He believed in hell for he knew what it felt like. He grew up with punches, kicks and belt, alternatively and ruthlessly touching his bare skin. He had a father and a tormentor, both morphed into a body.
All abuses and humiliation continued directed not to stop. He was always pushed down. Lower and lower, again and again. Then it came to the point where felt one with the ground. He felt so low, all time low. And that’s when he decided to meet the end.
He ended all the sufferings, all the pain. He ended the life where help never came.
They got what they wanted. Their wish was granted.