TW: Rape

I was always burned as a child.

I was always thought of as nothing.

I was told to shut my mouth, to stop taking. That I didn’t have any opinion.

But neither did my mother. Neither did my sister, although I never saw her before she was shipped off. I barely knew of her existence. Father always liked me better.

It’s sound cliche but the world went mad, people were too power hungry and wanted more and more and as they burned themselves into the ground, “The Mother” herself burned her own world to get the evil to stop. But it never worked. And some evil sacks of meat, they called people, found themselves in charge, controlling and manipulating us all.

And so, I had to turn to the outside for the love I so desperately drank in, it was my only comfort, but just like me and my so empty life it was all dead, or dying. It was a cacophony, a palette of deep greys with vibrant black hues contrasting to the white shield that was hung above us all day, everyday. What was left of the life outside was half-dying crops that were pulled out of the regur earth and slapped on an almost colourful plate to pretend it was real. When it was most truthfully not.

Stones, themselves, didn’t even look real. They weren’t a chalky grey like I had only ever heard of or barley seen in printed “bursts of colour” we held onto. They just looked odd. Like mounds of earth that had crawled from below or had dropped carelessly from the fallen angles of “The Above”. Nothing seemed right. But it felt better than my castle that sat on top of a mound of its own and dug its “stony” claws into me whenever I went. Even the two gargoyles that sat on their pedestals, had eyes of their own giving me stupendous looks like they hadn’t had to witness my suffering.

My “home” reflected the colours of the world itself and so when it was time for my fathers play time with me, I hid in what can only be described, as a non-grey marshland as it was covered in tawny, russet shades and it was the only place he wouldn’t dare to go: into the colour. Because it might remind him of his former self, before the world went mad.

But I had found myself mistaken after hearing my name being called over and over again, by him.

Just like normal, he layed me down and made sure I was flat and straight before pressing my back hard against the sharp stones which had seemed to dig into me. That’s going to hurt tomorrow. And as he got to work, thrusting himself on me, as fast as he could go in his old age, my arm seemed to escape his grasp and touch the dieing grass next to me. It made me feel a bit better, knowing we both had to same fate; to live a life of suffering before we finally got the sweet release of death, we so deserve.