I was only three when some god decided it was imperative for my life to fade away until it couldn’t be called a life. Before I could search the ends of the Earth to resolve and involve with whatever it can offer, I was stripped away with the opportunity to. I was striped away from my childhood. I was starved from the lack of action and activity. And deprived from the affection I only read about in stories with happy endings.

I wasn’t allowed to have a happy ending.

From the beginning of it all, I was abandoned. The woman who had given me life, gave me away and the father left without a word. By two, I had already gone through foster homes and families all ending up the same as the previous.

They didn’t want me.

I filled their selfish desires of wanting love from a youthful being, without gaining any in return. But any chance of having that love were crushed when they finally gotten a child of their own. Needless to say,

I wasn’t needed anymore.

In the midst of my fail to find my forever family like the lost puppy I was, I had finally gotten adopted. I jumped for joy, my eyes glimmered, and hopes and dreams I thought were gone had appeared wonderfully. ‘This wasn’t the end..!’ I had thought.

I spoke too soon.

My newfound family was no family. It was twisted darkly by the people living in it. Telling me venomous things the wicked could only come up with, and only the wicked could break.

And they broke me.

I was taught to listen and obey, not having a say in any partaking that did have something involving me. But that didn’t matter. I didn’t matter. I was a three year old. I was foolish. Letters, words, sentences, to essays of things I wanted to say bubbled my mind and suffocated my breathing, as if actually suffocating me. This happened often though. When I felt the need to speak my mind and felt the lump in my throat swell only for me to swallow it down. It wasn’t uncommon. However, one fateful day I had felt like I was suffocating. I brushed it off as a mental delusion in this illusion of reality.

I was wrong.

I never asked for anything of my caretakers. But now I bruised my knees and begged to have myself checked by the doctors. Something was wrong. I felt wrong. Nothing was ever right and I hated that. The ringing in my head kept me up at night, the way I could only eat liquid, the lost of actual taste in foods on my tongue, the darkness I could only see when I was in light unlike others around me, the unbearing nausea attacking every part of my body, the pain and drowsiness drowning me.

I couldn’t handle it anymore.

Not wanting to go to jail and pay the price if I died in their care, they finally allowed me to get a check up from the doctor.

It was too late.

Expecting a solution to my predicament, I was harshfully wrong too. The words that left the doctor made the floor beneath me vanish, making me forget there was ever a floor. I crumbled like the world around me. I shook violently, as if  participating in an earthquake, and shed waters resembling roaring tsunami’s swelling in my eyes.

“You’re going to die.”

I was diagnosed with a rare incurable disease forcing me to cage myself inside a hospital for the rest of my days, only being able to lay in a stiff bed surrounded by unnerving white with only a window to look out of. My so called family rarely visited me, only checking if I had died yet and paying off checks for my medical needs.

I was once again, cursed with another burden.

Losing something, I also gained something delightful. I gained the friendship and kindness of the hospital staff taking care of me. The surge of pity towards me took place when they witnessed my family’s actions towards me, and only worsened when I had explained my background to one of the nurses which spread with other nurses. I wasn’t sure if being pitied was a good thing, but the affection I was starved of felt warm. I cried when the nurse I told my story to engulfed my body in a hug. My story wasn’t worth crying over, but the hug I was given was enough to emotionally overwhelm my entire being. As days go on, my sickness grows. The amount of medication grew. The tubes connecting my body to machines grew. And the overbearing pain grew rapidly. The only thing that seemed to shorten, was my life. I drowned myself in every and any book I could get my hands on. Articles in newspapers, old books, webcomics, web books, and all the books i would get from the staff. I sometimes got books from some of the other sick occupants who knew me and asked their own families to give me their books. Years went by and I had read hundreds of books. I didn’t own that many though. People just went out to libraries and rented books for me, since I was too ill to do so. It warmed my heart at the people I met at the hospital.

I was fifteen when I got a reality check to remember I didn’t have a happy ending.

I was on a regular check up with the doctors. I just didn’t know it was my last check up. I had been laughing at something the doctor said about the manga laying on my bed when I hiccuped. I brushed it off until I started coughing. Then full on hysterically wheezing. I wiped my mouth to find a crimson liquid at the end of my sleeve. I started hyperventilating when my vision was blurred with what I thought were tears, but actually were the same red substance. My ears rang--no--roared. I gasped for air, choking on my blood. The doctor yelled for help as he laid me down on my bed and prepared my body for a surgery of some sort. I didn’t care. I just wanted the pain to leave. While rushing my body to another room, the book which was drenched in blood on my bed had fell off. I attempted to reach for it when my vision darkened and my body fell limp.