The Victums

It's beyond any point of going back and trying to stop this.It was over years ago, before my brother could talk, before he could walk or understand; when the pictures I drew were of princesses high up in a castle tower, letting her hair down to be saved. It was over when we still thought the wind would pick us up. But we were pushed to the core and brought back up again, ugly and deformed.

It wasn't our fault though, that we fell apart, oh yes, it someone's, but not ours. Someone no one ever expected, or still ever would, poisoned us. He screamed: it was him who did it. He wanted to be caught, but they were deaf. He got away.

Still, no one cares. Our friends never get too close; we won't let them. Our lovers leave; we let them. Our lives float on; we don't care any more. Maybe there is a gene for this disease. A mutinous gene that rips lives from the hearts of people who care but cannot anymore. There is a biological, evolutionary stand point, that is the explanation to all that is wrong and unjust, and because we know why it is, we can live with it. We can accept it. The reality is, we have no clue. We squirm and whither under the pressure, the pressure we don't know we have, and live with it. There is no explanation. No cure. I'm sad to say there never will be.

It's more than just the people who are ripped away, much more. Emotions, self-respect, trust, friends, hope, family, drift away. Insanity within. Bring it upon the world, upon the children. Move away, start over. Runaway. Think it's over. It's not. The one who dies destroys more than himself; he destroys the families he was apart of, the children he created, and the wife he left behind. He leaves behind a legacy; the one who left the world on his own accord; the one who murdered thousands in mind, body, and soul. The one who chose death over life. The ones who survive.

No one blames this murderer; they blame the thousands left behind, and they blame themselves. The victims of suicide.