17 but no more.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is a story about a kid that is being bullied by his parents and cannot wait to get set free. Just a mistreated kid.

Submitted: November 05, 2015

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Submitted: November 05, 2015

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Hello, my name is James Peterson. I'm 17, raised in Alabama and now living in California.

My parents used to beat me, use my name as a cursing symbol and even sell me for drugs and alcohol money.

I then one day stood up to them and said this is enough. As a gay, 17 year old kid, I decided that I was done being their little slave boy.

Little did I know, that was the last day of my life I would ever see the sun again, never-ending suffering.

I was beaten again, I was thrown against a wall, against a chair and a glass table that used to stand in the living room. I tried to stand up, but they both kicked me down, stepped me into the dirt of the basement floor. They cut me with rusty knives and blunt razors. The bent, ripped pieces of razor cutting deep into my flesh, tearing out some meat with every slash. It was getting wet around me, it began to feel like I was swimming in oil, the thick black liquid, all around me, smothering me, allowing me to only take gapping pieces of air to support my lungs.

They stopped, why, how? I couldn't move, I just looked at them looking down to me, so disappointed, I could see my reflection in their eyes, I saw the light coming down the stairs, shining on me, shining not on what I thought was oil, but blood.

Everything froze, the drop of blood coming out of my eye, the spit of me coughing, the foot steps of my parents, even the beat of my heart and the breeze flowing through my hair, down to my blue, ripped out back. I stood up, turned around and walked up the stairs, through the door like a lost soul, which I was anyway seeing that nobody was there to help me...

I seem to have remembered one friend I knew in primary school, Elton, Elton was his name. We were great friends, making jokes about girls back then, back when I thought I was straight, as the public would want me to be. Not that I know how, but I also knew where he lived, after 15 years of no socializing in any way.

They still lived there, what a miracle it came to be for me. I went up the stairs to his room, is his bed asleep, I looked at him, for what felt to be an eternity, but then said goodbye. I did the same at his mom and sister' rooms. How jealous I was, wishing I had what he takes for granted.

Seeming that he was the only person I knew out of the house and really want to say goodbye to, I had no choice than to go back home, when I walked in, the horror, sadness and dispair went up in smoke, but not the conditions. I went down to my room, or shall I say dungeon. I looked at myself looking at me, I was dead. I saw the smile growing on my face as a last action in my existence, not because I knew they were going to suffer for going to jail for my death, but because I was free.

I am free.


© Copyright 2019 Adriaan Harms. All rights reserved.

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