dennis

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He remembered standing in the kitchen one night as a little boy, wondering who these people were they were living with and where the hell real parents went. He watched as the two adults who had taken over his life hit the sickly girl they called his little sister. His eyes were too young to see these kinds of things. But they would soon mature.

He wondered where the other girls went, while he was left all alone at the strange, unfamiliar place he would be forced to later call home.

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He wasn't proud of the way he would get up in the dead of night just to stare back at the exhausted face in the mirror, eyes red and dark shadows under them. That face represented everything, the hell he lived in every single day.

He wouldn't tell his parents.

He couldn't tell his girlfriend.

He didn't want help. He wanted to prove it to them that he could do it himself.

But he couldn't.

He knew he couldn't.

And that just resulted in more anger, more frustration, more hurting, more cutting.

More bloodshed, more pain.

And the never-ending scars, wounds that could never truly be sewn back together again. 

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