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The Story of my Life [Fictional]
On one side of my head to which was my left, I had a mark that symbolized to me a certain charm or ability. It could have been created on purpose to curse me or otherwise, bless me. This could have been a mark since birth. I had no idea what it meant or what made me stand out like the way I did today. This mark seemed as if it were decorated ornately just for me like I was the "Chosen One". It was a cross with an eclipse at the intersection. But it seemed like it was carved into my own flesh with a pocketknife. No one found me as a special person even though we had our own individuality. There was no oddity that people saw in me. To them, I was just a normal kid with issues. They still called me a kid even though I was a teenager. I found it to be so annoying just as people would mistake my name for Michael. That happened on and on since childhood, but as time went by, I began realizing that I ignored it more and more. All of my classmates would just stare at me while I would gaze into the blue sky with its silver clouds. I would gaze wondering what was beyond the sky, I would wonder how free can one person possibly be and not be trapped in the material world. Day after day, I would say to myself, "Won't it ever end?" I grew tired as each passing day went by and bored, as nights would come. When the stars would show themselves, I would wish upon them- wishing that something would take me away: wishing that all the pain would go away. Sometimes, I would feel this ache in my head where my mark would be. I felt that my head was going to burst into flame when I would have this happen to me multiple times. The pain was so intense that felt the urge to slash my own wrist to take the thought away from the pain of my head that I would rather have myself endure it. I would wait for the day that would set me free from pain. Thoughts of murder began on the night I had my mother taken away to an asylum. She went mad staring at the blood splattered room and I stood there holding my blanket looking at the bloodstained hand of my father. My mother dropped the knife from the palm her hand and screamed. As a few minutes went by, she started to cry and as she cried, I started to hear the hints of laughter within. And I suppose that our neighbor…had heard the noise. And therefore, reported the disturbance. I heard the sirens of police cars come by one after another. About a total six cars arrived at the house we lived for a while and I had a feeling that I won't spend another night under its roof again. And somehow, I thought at the same time, my mother must've carved that mark on my head.
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