We don't want silver spoons in our mouths, we need to claw our way through the carnage to wipe the blood from our faces to see, this is our childhood.You see, my life isn’t as everyone else’s was when they were a child. Everyone had a mom who was caring, a father that work for a living, and some siblings that love them very much.
I’m going to make this as straight forward as possible, my parents died in a cooking fire when I was just three years old, life was extremely hard for me, the government took me into Child protective services and placed me with a foster family that could have cared less about my well-being.
With an abusive foster father and a lazy, drug addicted foster mother, I was alone in the house of terror. I was beaten more than seven times a day. I starved five days out of the week until it reached the point to where my fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Leavy, had to make me lunches and give them to me when class ended. I spent life like that for several years and by the time I was thirteen, CPS came by again and swiftly snatched me away from that hell.
What I soon found out was CPS wasn’t taking me to another foster family, but were taking me to a scientific research facility. The scientists there were dedicated to analyzing the behavioral aspects of human beings when thrown out of society. I know I wasn’t that much of a socializer when I was growing up, but with everything that had happened so far in my life, who could blame me? I was enclosed inside an isolation chamber upon my arrival.
I soon found out I was the youngest “lab rat” being held there, but I wasn’t being treated any different from the others there as well. I spent three entire years inside the chamber, alone, locked up, no one to talk to. However, I received three square meals a day. Now the closest thing to social interaction that I had was a small white, gloved hand coming through my chamber door, delivering my daily meals and taking my leftovers. Also, I was gifted a textbook every month I spent in there; a different textbook every month if I might add. I would read them over and over again until I grew tired of Kirchhoff’s quantum mechanics theory.
I was in there for such a long time that I had forgotten the day I lived in hell, but I have not forgotten the exact day, month, year, and time that I had entered this dreadful facility. My makeshift library eventually consisted of thirty-six books, one from each month from the three years I spent there, and out of all of them my favorite was and still is Survival of the Greatest. Sometimes, I would think that I was near the brink of insanity; listening to the voice echoing in my head of my dead mother, then, wake up on the floor foaming from my mouth. To think all that happened because I was “unsociable.” BULL SHIT!