Maggot (Ch.I)

         "Maggot! Maggot! Maggot!"



         Voices snarled at a figure upon the ground as they continued to kick dust and dirt into the figure's eyes. Rolling about, blinded by nothing but a veil of dust, the other laughed, kicking his sides until he was still. Sure enough, they all spat on him, kicked him one last time, then walked away, laughing. Shivering, the figure got up on his hands and knees. His body shook with a tremor and he coughed, pressing a hand to his split lips, pulling it away to see the familiar body fluid that he wished he didn't see. Somehow, upon seeing it, it relaxed him, made him woozy at that. Almost in a drunk state. Pushing himself up, he wasn't going to let himself pass out even if he was a few blocks away from home. He just shook his head, spit out the blood he tasted and ran a hand through his hair. It was common for him to get into fights. Not like it never happened. Of course it did. It always was him. Him, him, him. No one else. Why was it him? Was it his dark skin? His orange hair? Just what was it that made them so disgusted at him? Whatever it was, it didn't quite bother him any longer as he shuffled across the ground. His hair in clumps and his eyes drained of all life as he stared ahead



         Click, clack, squeeeeeeeeeeeak, SLAM.



         The door opened and shut behind him, only to hear the angry voice of his often drunk father who threw a bottle of unfinished alcohol at him, which he caught without flinching. He was used to his father's verbal abuse, but was never physically abused. His mother rushed to his aid, the sound of worry in her voice.



         "Oh honey! David! Did you get into a fight with those boys again?"



         The mother asked, brushing her hand over the dark tan of his skin on his face, her eyes were lined with worry, but her body said otherwise. She was pretending to care, she too, was a drunk, an alcoholic and drug addict. They both were. They never stopped smoking. It sickened him, that's why he went out of the house and escaped the pressure of living with an abusive family. David said nothing as he pushed her aside and fled to his bedroom, the sounds of his mother's angry voice behind him along with the slurred insults from his father.



         Pounding the pillows with fists and muffling the screams, David tried to unleash his rage behind his bedroom door, but it didn't seem to work. He wasn't the one who had much anger issues, although his father and mother obviously had them. He sunk his face into his pillow, upset and afraid of what was going to happen now. They were beating him until he could barely move. Maybe they were bruising him inside so much he was bleeding. Yeah, that's what he wished was happening. But he didn't have hemophilia. Although he wished he did. Maybe he did, but they just weren't hitting him the right spots to make him bleed on the inside. Oh how he wished he had hemophilia.



         Sighing, he lifted himself from the pillows and slunk off the bed, moving quietly in silent tiptoe towards the bathroom that was just around the corner of his bedroom. Silently, like a leopard hunting its prey, he quickly entered and closed the door behind him, locking it from the inside. There was no doubt his angry father would come slurring his head off of curses and slamming his fat fists onto the door frame. Flinching, David shivered as he went to the mirror. Looking at his face, bruises here and there, a black eye for sure, and of course, blood dribbling from his nose past his lips and to his chin. Damn, what kind of mess did he get himself into? To his surprise, his father didn't start to pound at the door, instead, it was quiet out there.



         Silently, he opened the door, peering out to see that it was empty. What the hell? Where did they go? They couldn't just vanish in thin air! They were just arguing not too long ago. Slinking towards the kitchen, he peered over the couch and there was nothing, but the cave in of his father's lazy weight etched into the couch. Turning to the kitchen, there was nothing but a rotting loaf of bread that was being swarmed by flies. He turned his head slowly, did the world just spin so fast that he was moving so slow that time had passed? No. Something wasn't right.



         Quickly moving towards his room, the house dark and dusty, streams of light fluttered through broken windows and showed small wisps of dust devils floating across the air. Opening his door, it was normal. Lit, everything was fine. Turning around, he found himself facing his mother, who had an angry look on her face.



         "David. It's time to eat. Come and eat with us like a real family. I can't stand it when you go and eat all by yourself in your room!"



         She snapped, grabbing him harshly by the wrist, dragging him across the floor towards the kitchen. On the kitchen counter was nothing but a bowl of something that didn't look human to begin with. David just stared at it, pushed it away, and made his way to the bedroom. On the way, his mother grabbed his arm.



         "What's the matter with you? Don't you love your mommy's cooking?"



         She asked, her voice breaking. It was that stupid act of hers that made anyone break down and do what the bitch pleased. He shook his head and wrenched his arm away from her. Her grip was tight, but he escaped, rushing to his room to slam the door behind him and lock it. Leaning against the doorway and sliding down its slippery surface, coming to rest on the carpet. Why couldn't he just call the cops? Tell them he's being abused by his so called 'parents'?



         He was a coward, that's why. He had a too good of a heart to do such a thing, let alone his own parents. If he could just pick up the phone, dial the life-saving number of 9-1-1, he would be whisked away from this hell hole of a pit called 'home', and be living in royalty. But he was old enough to deal with his parents. They weren't like this before, oh no. They treated him like a prince out of a fairy tail. A fairy tail gone sour.



         No matter what he was going to do, no one was going to help him. Nobody knew him, nobody cared either. So why does he let himself get beat up? To fuel his energy, his spirit, his rage. He was storing it so that one day, he would be able to unleash all the hurt, pain, suffering, anger out onto his mother and father, blame them for the shitty thing of a life they gave him after he turned seven. Now just turning eighteen, he was ready, ready to do it. But he wasn't sure how to do it, thus sidetracking him. He pounded his fists into the pillow and let out an anguished scream as he pulled out the small blade from under his pillow. He brought it to his wrist and breathed heavily, nearly laughing in some cases. Hysteria. That's the word. Moving the blade sideways in a rapid sawing motion, he squeezed his eyes closed and concentrated on other thoughts, thoughts of what he wished he had, what he wished he was living in.



         Soon the pain was too much and he forced himself to stop, pressing the bleeding wrist with his hand to supply pressure. Damn, a little too deep. Gotta stop the blood flow, but how? Ah, the bed sheets. That'll do nicely. tearing off a piece of the bed sheet with his teeth, he wrapped it tightly over his new wound, a new wound to add to his collection of scars. It seemed that the pain was subsiding quickly, what a disappointment. He wanted more pain, more tears, more suffering to be able to store all that angry energy to unleash at them. Those so called 'parents'. They were more like pigs, relishing in all the drugs and alcohol they could get their greedy hands on. No decent food, just drugs. Drugs were everything. To them, it was. David sighed again, looking at the newly stained piece of bedding and brought his hands to his face, letting out sobs.



         Wasn't there anyone out there, anyone at all, who could hear this poor boy's cries? Anyone at all that could come and rescue him? Rescue him from this hell? David was alone. Never had friends, because if he did, and they came to his house, they would immediately leave and pretend they didn't know him. He always brought them home when his father was either drunk, or his mother was. That's why no one could hear his strained cries for angels to take him away and give him the love and care he needed. No, he was alone. Forever alone.



         Well, being alone wasn't so bad. But then, you have all those emotions bottled up inside, like David. David hated it, he wanted to escape from reality, to go elsewhere. And that was exactly what he was going to do. Shuffling towards the window of his bedroom which was on the first floor (seeing they had a one-story house with a basement attached), he propped the window open, shoved back the screen, making it fall into the grass, and swung his legs over the edge.



         "Goodbye, for good."