Where ☹ Muke

0 ; maybe i should call it quits.

« clifford :: trigger warning. »

"Bastard." That's true.

"Freak." Obviously.

"Stupid." Yeah.

"Rejected." Yep.

"Pussy." Mhm.

"Failure." Surely so.

"Emo." I guess.

"Worthless." Positively.

"Faggot." Call it what you want.

"Ugly." Horribly true.

"Loser." Yes sir.

"Dick." You are what you eat.

"Suicidal." Yeah.

"Annoying." Duh.

"Homewrecker." As if I want to be here.

"Gay dick sucker." Okay.

"Deadbeat." Yep.

"Run away like your dad did." I wish.

"Cunt." I am whatever you say I am.

"Lardass." I'll skip dinner.

"Psycho." Indeed.

"Slit your wrists." I'd like to.

"Zero." You guessed it.

"Disgusting." Mhm.

"Insane." Yeah.

"Just like your father." Maybe.

"Kill yourself." I want to.

"A broken twelve year old named Michael Clifford." That too.

Why is it at such a young age people feel the way they do, where they're never enough no matter how hard they try to fit into society, as if their life is worth nothing to the world or anybody else on the planet? How come children have to suffer the causes of others decisions, why do we have to endure all the pain they've bundled within themselves, why do they chose people like us to lash out on?

How exactly is it my fault my father left?

Being born, the reason he left was finding out my mother had a worthless piece of shit for a son, a child who's growing up to be an ugly faggot. That's the reason he walked out on her and that's the reason I'm going insane, with every punch she throws I'm reminded that I caused him to leave.

This whole time I've had a single person to go to, one person to help me.

My best friend Luke is my escape, he's my happiness in hard times. He's also partially why my dad left us, all because he thought I would grow up and he'd walk in in us fucking like the "fucking faggots you are." But still he's there for me -- when my mom lashes out, he's there with open arms and willing to hold me until I feel safe again.

This time he couldn't stop her, he didn't make it there in time.

I walked in our small apartment only to be greater by the mixed smells of strong vodka and vomit, but it wasn't much different than what the place normally smelled like. Though it was horrible going to school being laughed at for smelling like a bar when you're only twelve.

"Karen?" I called my voice sounding echoed by the countless glass bottles littering the carpet.

There was no reply.

I stepped forward making sure to step over the shards of a few broken bottles, it was a wreck I'd have to clean later but I was more focused on my mother. Sure I hated her most times, sure she beat the shit out of me on a daily basis, but she's my mother and that was more important than harsh feelings.

I continued towards her room thinking maybe she was asleep or possibly in the bathroom, that is until it hit me.

Quite literally to be honest.

I grasped the back of my skull hissing at the sharp pain and ignoring the blood running down the side of my face. "What the hell?" I shrieked averting eyes as I realized what I had done.

"Don't fucking swear." She yelled raising a palm to swipe across my cheek harshly.

I stumbled backwards falling on my arse with a crack as my head hit the ground probably pushing the protruding shard of glass deeper into my head. I sat there looking at her with pleading eyes just hoping she'd done enough damage for the night, I already felt weak.

"You asshole, I fucking hate you." She grabbed me by the hair and pulled me to my feet.

"Goddamnit child, speak." She yelled tightly squishing my cheeks in her hand making me look deeply into her bloodshot eyes.

"Fuck, Gordon you're just like your damn father." She shrieked lowering her hands.

"Talk you bastard." She lowered her hands.

"What the hell freak." She took a step back throwing a sharp slap to my cheek.

"You know, maybe you should be punished." She smirked stepping back so we were face to face.

"If the faggot wants a dick in his ass, I'll give him a damn dick in the ass." She muttered grabbing my wrist and dragging me to her bedroom. I sobbed silently as I realized what she was doing because it wasn't the first time she'd done it to me.

"C'mon," I stayed still ignoring the sharp pain in my head, "are you deaf, get your ass over here."

Slowly I made my way towards her trying to stall time I'm hopes she'd claim it a lost cause.

She didn't.

I stepped in front of her and she raised my shirt revealing the scars lining my hips and countless bruises and burn marks. She clicked her tongue running her fingers across the more recent marks that were still rimmed red and barely scabbed over, her fingers burned like hell against my skin as I whimpered at the touch.

"Is the faggot not over himself yet?" She smirked before looking at my stomach.

"You should really lay off the food, you're getting too fat." She flicked my stomach.

"Oh Gordon, what am I going to do with you tonight?" She asked throwing me on the bed in one sharp movement.

"Gordon, Gordon, Gordon when will you learn." She asked walking -- more like stumbling -- to her dresser drawers where she kept that thing, the cause of so many nightmares and late-night breakdowns.

She did it again, and it just made me feel more worthless then ever before.

I felt like it was time to give up, I just wanted to end it all -- I wasn't worth anything to anybody and the only person that ever gave me their time of day was Luke and well, Luke wasn't there for me when I needed him most.

I didn't text Luke, I didn't talk to my mom, I didn't go to anybody, hell I didn't even write a note saying my problems, I just went for the bottle of pills my mom left in the cabinet.

And that's how I ended up halfway across the world, more alone than ever in a mental facility for six years and only contact with the other patient I shared the stupid bunk with and my idiotic therapist.