As I sit here, in my room, im surrounded by darkness. Happiness is never found here. Covered in past scars, tatoos, and my gothic clothing, I think of how my life went wrong. Beaten by my step-dad everyday, treated like a loner at school, getting blamed for shit I didnt do. And the only escape is my razor hidden in my room.

Ever since my mom divorced my real dad, nothing seems right anymore. She started to date guys that were totally wrong for her. Even my brother and sister agree. My sister, Ariel, was fortunate enough to be able to move out before things got worse. She now lives in New York with her husband, far away from fucking Arizona. And my brother, Kevin, who is two years older than me has to stay here with me. Suffering. Then, a year later, she met Jack, our now step-dad. When my mom was gone, Jack would watch me and my brother. As he did, he would beat the fucking shit out of us. And when my mom came back, he would act like the innocent bastard she thought he was.

"What's that on Chester's forehead?" she wold ask.

"Oh, that. It's nothing but a scratch. The lad was skateboarding, and did some sort of trick that ended up hurting the poor fellow." he would simply reply.

That bastard. I wanted to kick him in the balls and scream liar to his face. I wanted to tell my mom what really happened. I wanted to tell her to dump that tit-biting fuck tard. I wanted to tell her all these things, but I was too much of a coward to do so.

School was just as bad. Whenever I was seen walking through the hallway, people would move closer to the nearest locker for protection. They all acted like I had a infectious disease.

"Oh my gosh, look, its the loner. Move it, I dont want him to be touched by me!" they would say.

And in class, Im really smart, and I know this, and Im sure the teachers knew this as well, and yet, they all failed me. I wish everyone wasnt so prejudice. I wanted a friend so badly. Some one I could talk to about my life. But that wish was a fa distant to reach.

When I got home, I immeadiately run to my room. Anything negative that happens to me, I tend to cut myself. So far, no one haas suspected this, mainly because I wear clothes that rarely show my skin.

I grab my razor, slicing my skin. The maroon colored blood soothes me. I do this once more, but deeper, inflicting pain throughout me.

I release the razor from my skin. Looking at it, i think to my self,

"My razor, my only friend"