Hi, my name is Jackson Monroe. I was born in Louisiana in 2005, and I’m suppose to be dead. … I was sixteen. My dad was an alcoholic. My mom was a pill addict. My sister died when I was thirteen. She was in a crash, my mom’s sister was at the wheel. Two lives were lost. The family dog Toh-Doh survived. I know I probably shouldn’t vent to a stranger. But I’ve done something that ain’t right. And I need help. You’re probably wondering why I’m suppose to be dead. My dad shot me. … Saying it aloud makes it all so real. I have the scar- half an inch of damaged flesh. The bullet was from a small handgun. He shot me in the head. The left side, damaging my skull. I don’t know where the bullet is. I never found it. I searched the bloody hole for hours, angry. It hurt, but it didn’t kill me. They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Songs, raps, quotes and everyday people. You can hear it anywhere. From anyone. … And I guess it was true. Because I went back to him two years later. Closed up in his trailer, every type of drug and drink splayed across the counters, him passed out on the couch. Well, I waited until he woke up. … And when he did I killed him. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves here… He woke up, I was sitting in the dark house, the same type of handgun on my lap that he raised to my head. I scratched an itch on my nose and sniffled in the ash and smoke in the air, from a blunt I lit while waiting. I puffed out the smoke and snuffed it out on the right armrest. He stared at me in a daze from the couch. “Do you know who I am?” I said. “Son…” he whispered, eyes wide. “That’s right. And do you know why I’m here? Do you know why I came back to this hell hole?” I was getting angry, my voice was deep, my teeth grit together. “‘Yer suppose to be dead.” … It was all he said as I stood from the chair, walked to where he lay and raised the gun to his head. Approximately the same place as he shot me. “You always wanted us to be the same…” I trailed, looking him in the blue eyes that we share. “Now I’m going to make you like me. I’m going to make you hurt like me. I’m going to make you suffer.” He closed his eyes. They never opened again. … I made sure, for he didn’t catch one bullet. He caught five.