Post by Eno Redrum on Oct 28, 2009 14:41:40 GMT -5
I don not feel like telling yo my story today. I do not feel like doing much of anything lately. Emotions and feelings of hurt, anger and pain seem to take up most of my time. To be honest, those feeling shave kept me in the dark of my room lately, the curtains drawn and I hide beneath the protective field of my blankets.
Yes, the True Diva of Wrestling is sad. No smile paints my face. I am so sad that I can not even hide behind the "clown face" I put on for the TWD and its fans since I arrived here.
That was part of my taking a break. That was part of the transformation you have seen from "Clown Dragzilla," the butt of the jokes here in the TWD to the more darker Dragzilla you now see. I have gone from being the circus clown children laugh at to the Pennywise Clown that haunts your darkest nightmares.
In short, the old Dragzilla is dead and this is all that remains.
They look at me with scrunched noses and hate-filled eyes, walking past me and spitting words at me like I’m nothing but filth.
“Look at it.” they say in disgust, lifting their chins and ‘accidently’ bump into me to knock my gear from my hands.
I sigh, kneeling down and picking up my stuff after they step on it.
“So gross.” they say loudly, sauntering off. My life is nothing in the light of theirs. I’m trash and dirt and nothing more than a mere splatter on their life that is necessary to remove.
I walk down the side walk, dreading the entrance to my home. It brings me back to my days as a foster child when my "Mum" was dead and "Dad" was an alcoholic. I sigh, looking up at the dark brown house that waits to pull me into its eternal Hell.
“Lord, take me away.” I whisper as I reach for the shiny brass door knob that leads into my home. I’m dull to pain, but the slap that I received as I tried to walk past my "father" burned my cheek severely. I held in my tears, for it only showed weakness and intrigued him more.
“Daddy, please.” I begged, holding my hands up in the air. He scoffed, throwing a metal pan at my head. I ducked in time and dashed up the stairs to my room, slamming my door and locking it. I slid a box out from under my bed, a green cot with two thin blankets and blood-covered pillows, and opened the lid. I smiled weakly at a picture of my "mother," short blonde hair and glowing blue eyes, ruby red lips and smooth tan skin, long blue dress and black strappy heels. She's holding a black-haired, blue eyed smiling little boy, me.
“I love you, Mum.” I said, my Czech accent flowing fluently into my words. I pulled out a razor, but I knew it wouldn’t do the job. I searched around in my drawers, wiping away my tears with the back of my hand. I needed something more, something to cause me unbearable pain and suffering. I stretched up on my toes to reach a basket from the top shelf in my closet, squinting my eyes as dust fell off the wooden shelf. I coughed and pulled the basket off, unwrapping a black hand-gun from a white satin napkin.
“Mikal! Open this door!” my father yelled.
I ignored him and sat against the wall, staring down at the gun in my shaking hands. His fists pounded against the door as swears rolled out of his mouth.
“Mikal! Dammit boy, what are you doing?!” he yelled.
I swallowed hard and lifted the gun to my forehead.
"No," I said to myself. "More. Push them more. Let them see what they’ve done," I thought, reaching for the tape recording on my desk. I made sure there was a clean tape in the latch and pressed the red button down, closing my eyes.
“August 22nd. My name is Mikal. I’m now in my twenties, and this is a suicide that you’re about to hear. I’m tired of the pain that everyone puts on me. I can’t take it any longer. You, the cool guys in the locker room. You never realize what pain you put me into. You don’t care. None of you do. I’ve been abused, sexually and physically by my 'father' ever since my 'mother' died when I was 9.
I’ve learned to accept it and just cut or try to kill myself. I’ve never had a single friend because I’m disgusting. Don’t you see what you’ve done to me?! But wait, you don’t care. This is my last goodbye…” I said into the recorder, pressing the gray ‘stop’ button and replaying the recording to make sure it sounded alright. I knew it didn’t, but I was too upset to care.
I stared at the gun for a few minutes, tracing the narrow barrel and arch of the metal bar that curved below the trigger. I sighed, knowing my time was over. I took a breath and counted to three, pulling my index finger back on the trigger as I put it to my forehead.
1. . . . . . . For the ONE day I was finally at peace.
2. . . . . . . For the TOO many things I seemed to do wrong.
3. . . . . . . The bullet races down the barrel and makes contact with my skin, barreling through my skull…
And with that, I am dead. The past and present blending into one spiraling whirlpool pulling me straight into the darkest depths of Hell.
Not dead in the real sense mind you. After all, I am being poetic. I never shot myself, although I have contemplated it. I merely killed the old and gave birth to the new.
Shut out the light and gave way to the darkness.
Again, this is your fault. I tried to be the good employee. I tried to be the friendly co-worker. However, you never gave me a chance. You never would allow it.
All you could see was the "Fag," the "Joke" that was Dragzilla. You never took time to look deeper and see the man hiding behind the mask of self uncertainty.
Shame on you for killing me.
Shame on me for allowing you to.
Shame on us all.
God have mercy on our souls for the nightmare we are all responsible for unleashing.
The nightmare that is now me.
Yes, the True Diva of Wrestling is sad. No smile paints my face. I am so sad that I can not even hide behind the "clown face" I put on for the TWD and its fans since I arrived here.
That was part of my taking a break. That was part of the transformation you have seen from "Clown Dragzilla," the butt of the jokes here in the TWD to the more darker Dragzilla you now see. I have gone from being the circus clown children laugh at to the Pennywise Clown that haunts your darkest nightmares.
In short, the old Dragzilla is dead and this is all that remains.
They look at me with scrunched noses and hate-filled eyes, walking past me and spitting words at me like I’m nothing but filth.
“Look at it.” they say in disgust, lifting their chins and ‘accidently’ bump into me to knock my gear from my hands.
I sigh, kneeling down and picking up my stuff after they step on it.
“So gross.” they say loudly, sauntering off. My life is nothing in the light of theirs. I’m trash and dirt and nothing more than a mere splatter on their life that is necessary to remove.
I walk down the side walk, dreading the entrance to my home. It brings me back to my days as a foster child when my "Mum" was dead and "Dad" was an alcoholic. I sigh, looking up at the dark brown house that waits to pull me into its eternal Hell.
“Lord, take me away.” I whisper as I reach for the shiny brass door knob that leads into my home. I’m dull to pain, but the slap that I received as I tried to walk past my "father" burned my cheek severely. I held in my tears, for it only showed weakness and intrigued him more.
“Daddy, please.” I begged, holding my hands up in the air. He scoffed, throwing a metal pan at my head. I ducked in time and dashed up the stairs to my room, slamming my door and locking it. I slid a box out from under my bed, a green cot with two thin blankets and blood-covered pillows, and opened the lid. I smiled weakly at a picture of my "mother," short blonde hair and glowing blue eyes, ruby red lips and smooth tan skin, long blue dress and black strappy heels. She's holding a black-haired, blue eyed smiling little boy, me.
“I love you, Mum.” I said, my Czech accent flowing fluently into my words. I pulled out a razor, but I knew it wouldn’t do the job. I searched around in my drawers, wiping away my tears with the back of my hand. I needed something more, something to cause me unbearable pain and suffering. I stretched up on my toes to reach a basket from the top shelf in my closet, squinting my eyes as dust fell off the wooden shelf. I coughed and pulled the basket off, unwrapping a black hand-gun from a white satin napkin.
“Mikal! Open this door!” my father yelled.
I ignored him and sat against the wall, staring down at the gun in my shaking hands. His fists pounded against the door as swears rolled out of his mouth.
“Mikal! Dammit boy, what are you doing?!” he yelled.
I swallowed hard and lifted the gun to my forehead.
"No," I said to myself. "More. Push them more. Let them see what they’ve done," I thought, reaching for the tape recording on my desk. I made sure there was a clean tape in the latch and pressed the red button down, closing my eyes.
“August 22nd. My name is Mikal. I’m now in my twenties, and this is a suicide that you’re about to hear. I’m tired of the pain that everyone puts on me. I can’t take it any longer. You, the cool guys in the locker room. You never realize what pain you put me into. You don’t care. None of you do. I’ve been abused, sexually and physically by my 'father' ever since my 'mother' died when I was 9.
I’ve learned to accept it and just cut or try to kill myself. I’ve never had a single friend because I’m disgusting. Don’t you see what you’ve done to me?! But wait, you don’t care. This is my last goodbye…” I said into the recorder, pressing the gray ‘stop’ button and replaying the recording to make sure it sounded alright. I knew it didn’t, but I was too upset to care.
I stared at the gun for a few minutes, tracing the narrow barrel and arch of the metal bar that curved below the trigger. I sighed, knowing my time was over. I took a breath and counted to three, pulling my index finger back on the trigger as I put it to my forehead.
1. . . . . . . For the ONE day I was finally at peace.
2. . . . . . . For the TOO many things I seemed to do wrong.
3. . . . . . . The bullet races down the barrel and makes contact with my skin, barreling through my skull…
And with that, I am dead. The past and present blending into one spiraling whirlpool pulling me straight into the darkest depths of Hell.
Not dead in the real sense mind you. After all, I am being poetic. I never shot myself, although I have contemplated it. I merely killed the old and gave birth to the new.
Shut out the light and gave way to the darkness.
Again, this is your fault. I tried to be the good employee. I tried to be the friendly co-worker. However, you never gave me a chance. You never would allow it.
All you could see was the "Fag," the "Joke" that was Dragzilla. You never took time to look deeper and see the man hiding behind the mask of self uncertainty.
Shame on you for killing me.
Shame on me for allowing you to.
Shame on us all.
God have mercy on our souls for the nightmare we are all responsible for unleashing.
The nightmare that is now me.
