You may know me. You may not. If you do, you’d find me disgusting. “Fucked up”, you might say. I haven’t been this way forever. I used to have a normal life. I was a normal kid. I loved school and had friends...
But then he ruined everything.
One day, he just snapped. He took me from my mother, and forced me to go through horrendous things. He told me that day we were going to school on his bike, but no. He lied.
He always lied.
He made me take this... thing. He said it would make us immortal, never to die again. He said if we ever died, we’d just revive and we could stay alive forever.
I look young, but I’m not anymore.
After he injected me with whatever immortality serum he’d used, he stuck me on his bike and told me to hang on.
We went through trial after trial, dying. Over. And over. And over again.
It hurt just as much every time.
I’ve learned what my insides look like. I know my father’s body
and out. I’ve memorized the feel of intestines, I’m grown accustomed to the taste and smell of blood.
It went on for years.
He’d take me through these trails. I never understood why he made me come on these adventures through harpoons and weapons and killing people. I’ve almost grown to like it.
He never cared about me. I always loved him through it all, but he never gave a shit. He would throw me into danger. He would crush my head with the tire of his bike.
I’ve grown stronger.
I began to revel in the feeling of dying. I loved the cold steel of a harpoon piercing my torso and sucking the life from my body. My dad began to yell at me, telling me how wrong it was to revel in that feeling, to enjoy the last flooding adrenaline of a dying body. He learned to accept it.
I’ve killed him a few times now.
I’m growing stronger than my dad. I’ve finished trials without him or ahead of him, without a bike even. He would toss me ahead as a punishment for some unknown crime and hope that I would die, but more times than he’d like, I make it to the end.
I finish what even my father can’t.
I’ve started to find a purpose. If I can kill him, permanently, I can do anything. If I can rid myself of his presence, I can live my life as I choose. I don’t know how many years I’ve stayed this age, and my mom is probably dead by now, either from grief or old age, so I’ll have to make a living out of my singing career.
Or I can kill everyone who’s ever had anything to do with these trials and ruining my life.