A small claustrophobic box, that always seemed filled with useless things that’d build dust....And I.... Was one of them. ‘Stupid’, ‘Moron’, Waste of space’, ‘Little ’, these were the names that taunted my very being, plagued my very sanity, hurt every fibre of feeling I owned. It killed me inside and there was nothing I could do about it. I just had to sit and take it, play by the rules, become a little doll. "Yes, Sir. Yes Madam. Whatever you say. Jump? How high?" Urgh! This was beyond belief, how is this even a life? Tamed by torment. How was that fair? It’s not a life, it’s a sin.

With every creak of the hinges pain would come and then go, I was thankful for the second, happier in the darkness as no life was possible for such a hideous being in the light. The light was a shameful and horrid thing to ultimately reveal blemishes in ones appearance and or soul and “luckily”, I had both.

“Yah!” A voice came booming as the door swung open. I stuttered over my words gaining a slap that I was used to by now, accompanied with the word, “Stupid”. I was used to this treatment as I was rolled over and kicked repeatedly as a drunken rage took over the elder man’s body.  Bruised internally as well as on the inside, bones most likely shattered as the beating both physical and verbal continued. “What are you to be in my house. This is my home, we have no room for you here. Little ! You waste of time, money and space”, the words slurred but still piercing like blades.

The rage ended in a few vulgar words about ual occupations and the name inferring that I had had more than one ual partner combined with a mix of assault to the facial region. It was useless to cry, I knew the words weren’t true. I knew that for a fact.

But, still every word and piece of harmful contact bruised my soul, my mind and my heart.

What did I do to deserve this treatment? I was just born and thrown into an attic with little food and water, making a living off of what I could find.  Learning from neglected, dusty books. Learning languages, common knowledge, places, things, even reading about stories of make believe, the impossible of the narratives making my hope spark. Making whatever I needed/wanted from the meaningless furniture and belongings that occupied the small space. This wasn’t right. Was it? Did I commit a mass murder in my past life? Did I harm animals? What did I do to get this?

I was neglected, alone, hurt and lost. This was not a normal life. It was a journey of a being that had no wish of human contact, in fear of being hurt.

I couldn’t trust them.

I couldn’t trust anybody.

This is my life.

If you could even call this a life....