There are many types of monsters in this world

There are people saying that there is nothing as much important and as much perfect as the love, parents give to their children. This may be true, but does that mean that all parents love their children? And what happens to children who are not loved by their parents?

I was born on 31th of october 1979. It was a rainy evening in Winchester and my mother had to stay in hospital for two weeks until she finally could take me home.

When my mother got pregnant, she was in her late thirties. My father and her lived in Winchester, Great Britain, since fourteen years in the same house with the same furniture and the same decoration.

They hated changes and anormalities. They were complete philistines, nothing too much, nothing too less. The house was not too big and not too small, my father smoked, but never too much and never too less, the yard was perfect, never too long and never too short, as if they tried to make sure that no one would ever notice them. And everything in the first eight years of my life was like this, never too much and never too less.

You may wonder why I am complaining. I am not complaining. I just think it is ridiculous and furthermore it is important for this story.

I also want to add, it was really boring. Even the time they gave me to play when I was in kindergarten was perfectly planned. I didn't mind it because it was familiar to me and I never behaved wrong.

But when I should be enrolled in school, all went wrong. I do not try to tell you, my parents ever loved me. They did not even care. No, but when I should be enrolled and the doctor tested if I was 'ready' for school, the doctor told my parents happily I was highly intelligent. All parents in the world would be happy by learning their child was highly intelligent. All parents but mine. Highly intelligent was not normal. Highly intelligent did not mean neither too much nor too less, it meant way too much.

When we get home this evening, I asked my parents, what 'highly intelligent' meant. I was five years old and I did not understand. My mother started crying and my father shouted at me.

He called me a bastard, weird, he said, probably they should have given me away after I was born because I was a borther to them. Since this day, the word 'home' was connected to 'hell'.

I finally came to school a few weeks later. I did not even try to make friends with the other children since they called me a nerd, a swot, a weirdo or a smug from day one. It was a horrible time. My parents hated me and ignored me as much as possible, I was grateful they gave me food even if it was few. In school, nobody liked me as well and in our neighborhood I was just the weird little boy who never left the house.

When my first holidays came, I already was as pale as a vampire and as skinny as a anorexic. I looked like the walking dead. I had dark cyrcles arround my eyes because I never slept more than two hours and my black hair grew wild and in all directions. I looked so different from just a few months ago, it was terrifying.

I spent the holidays in my bedroom, reading, as well as all other holidays in my time at school. The only reasons for me to left my bedroom was to use the bathroom since I lost my appetite about two weeks after my first day at school where I finally stopped eating proper meals or even having the sensation of hunger. In fact, I spent the next three years like an amphibian in winter, without moving when it was avoidable, without eating, when it was avoidable, without doing anything beeing avoidable.