You will never be good enough.

Cut.

You’re not want your Mom wants.

Cut.

Your parents don’t even like you.

Cut.

Aiden!

Mother’s voice drifts up the stairs to your room.

Come down here, please!

You know you’re in trouble.

Cut.

They expect nothing but perfection.

Cut.

You’re worthless.

Cut.

Aiden!

She calls to you,

Irritated,

Impatient,

Angry.

Coming!

You call back,

And slide the razor in your drawer.

You run water over your arm,

Wrap a bandage around the cuts,

And throw on a long-sleeved shirt.

You ask what’s wrong.

But the look on her face,

Says it all.

You can read her like a book.

She’s disappointed,

Expecting perfection,

Wants a better son.

I got your midterm report today.

Her tone is serious,

And she hands me the paper.

All your grades were in the ninety’s.

It’s not good enough, Aiden.

You double check your grades,

Your teacher comments,

Your perfection report.

But I’m on honour role,

You object.

She glares into your eyes,

Her blonde hair flawlessly curled.

She hated that you inherited your Dad’s black colour.

You need to be first on honour role, not third.

You stare down at your feet.

Just once,

You wish that you could live up to her standards,

Her expectations,

And make her proud of you.

But you hold your thoughts,

Knowing what comes after the disappointment.

Why do you dress that way?

Do you want to look like a criminal?

Take out those piercings!

Does she mean your band t-shirts,

Jeans,

And converse shoes?

She always hated your lip piercings;

Two below your bottom lip.

Snakebites.

Was I not allowed to dress the way I wanted?

I’m getting rid of it all, right now.

Your music too,

Your posters,

And your skateboard.

It’s time to make you into the son I wanted.

You follow her as she storms towards you room.

She throws the door open,

And looks around in disgust.

She starts by ripping a poster off your wall,

And it tears right in half.

She does it to every single one,

And makes a pile on the floor.

Next she tears through your closet,

And throws every single piece of clothing I own,

Into the pile of garbage.

The music follows along right after,

As she takes your CDs,

Even the signed ones,

And breaks them in half.

They fall helplessly,

And you can’t help but yell.

You know you shouldn’t speak,

Object,

And question your mother.

But this is your life.

Stop!

You scream,

Finally acknowledging your life,

Personality,

And definition sitting in a broken pile.

You don’t say anymore,

And instead accept the hand the smacks your cheek.

Next will be the belt,

If you say anything more.

After that will be your father,

Who will be home from work in an hour.

And you didn’t want that.

Your mother heads out into the hall,

And brings back a box.

It’s to contain her disgust,

Your distinctiveness,

Your life.

She throws everything of yours in it,

And soon leaves your empty room.

Following helplessly,

You both soon reach the back yard.

She holds a can of gasoline,

A single match,

And you both stare down at who you were.

You stay silent,

As she pours the liquid over whom you used to be.

She doesn’t tell you to stand back,

As she flicks the match into flames,

And throws it onto your stuff.

It all goes up in flames,

And you watch weakly,

As the person your Mom hates,

The person you are,

As you,

Slowly burn in flames.