Matty MacGregor Devory
I just can't take anymore
This life of solitude
I guess then I'm out that door
And now I'm done with you
A/N : I hope you enjoy the first part of my fict ! Keep in mind while reading, please, that English is not my first language !
I think I've never been happy. In my whole life. For as long as I can remember, I have always had this feeling inside my stomach, making me sad. The fact that nobody ever cared for me probably did nothing to help this feeling to go away. I never had any friends. People think I'm a freak or something like that. I do not know if I'm a freak, but I know that I'm not like the other kids around. I have always been an outcast. I have never liked being too close to somebody. I was just too afraid to get hurt. And I still feel that way.
It all started the day I was born. Of course, I can't remember that day, and the months that followed, but I swear I can remember some things from my early years as a child. I remember the cold that was always present in the house. I remember the moist smell of wet and rotting wood, almost hidden by the strong smell of cigarette smoke. I remember the way my eyes stung because of the smoke and how I used to choke on it. I remember the bitter taste of the food and how I almost always threw up after eating.
I guess I have a good memory or something. What I can not remember is my dad. Later on, I learned that he left my mother after he learned that she was pregnant, but it was not until I turned nine. Before that, there was always a man in the house, different almost each month, a man that I could call dad even though he was not related to me. It was a good thing; I never did like any of them anyway.
But enough talk about me. Let's talk about the person who has been the center of my life for as long as I can remember. My mother. If I can count well, she was around seventeen when she got pregnant. Her boyfriend left her, telling her that he did not want to take care of a child. My mother got mad, and I think she is still mad because of that, even seventeen years later. She did not want to have a child either, so she had an abortion. The problem was that she was so ashamed of being pregnant at such a young age that she didn't even want to go to a doctor. She did that herself, with a clothes hanger. Unfortunately for her, or luckily for me (I guess it depends on whether or not you're an optimist), she didn't succeed and nine months later, I was born. She already hated me when I was a baby. I could feel it. Babies can feel those kind of things. She was very cold to me. She never hugged me or patted me on the head. She rarely talked to me. If she did, it was to tell me to shut up or to give me orders. Because she never asked me politely, she ordered me. I never had the right to talk back. If I did, she slapped me. Hard.
Because of the way my mother treated me, I grew up being a coward. As I said earlier, I had no friends in school. The other kids just ignored me. They were not evil with me. Of course, they sometimes punched me or threw snowballs at me, but it happens to every kid. The teachers said that I was a very quiet and shy child. I never participated in classes or asked questions. I remember my fourth grade teacher. She was a nice lady with grayish hair. She cared a lot about me and was always worried when I missed school or did not eat for lunch. I think she was the only one who noticed that I was being beaten at home. I loved her, but I was too shy to confess everything. Now that I think about it, maybe if I had told her the truth, my life would have been better. I do not know.
Anyway, I was a very submissive child. I took orders from anybody and felt lost when there was no one around to tell me what to do. I remember that time in grade three when a kid from my class told me to eat some glue. I did not even hesitate to take a full spoon of the sticky liquid. I was about to take another one when the teacher stopped me. He called my mother and she had to take me to the hospital where we spent the night. I puked a lot and she was so mad at me that she punched me infront of the doctor. The idiot seemed to be half drunk so he didn't even notice.
Those were the happy years of my life. In grade six, my mom grew tired of Canada and decided to move in the USA, where all your dreams come true. She told me we were moving in a tiny town called South Park, in Colorado. I didn't really care. I mean, I loved my small town. It was nice and calm. In the night, on the other side of the river, I could see the lights shining from Quebec City. It was beautiful.
We moved two days after my last day of school. I can't remember if I was excited or not. I remember that my mother had been very moody and would snap at me for nothing.
After we got settled in our new, very small appartment, I started to think that maybe things would get better for me. Moving could mean starting anew. Maybe my mother would start caring for me. Maybe I would make friends even though I was barely able to speak English.
That summer went by really quickly. She did not talk to me for most of it. She always said she was too busy to talk. She had to find a job...Which she is still looking for, by the way.
School started. I was nervous to meet new people. My English had improved a little bit over the summer but the other students had a hard time trying to understand me. After a while, they simply gave up. I did not mind; I did not try to get better anyway.
At home, things started to get worse. Really worse. Mother could not find a job because she never finished high school and because she was worse than me in English. Instead of trying to improve herself, she decided she hated this country and the retards living here. She locked herself in the house and started to drink. I watched, unable to do something about my mother going from a good-looking lady to an ugly bitch. She would rant all day long about how I ruined her life, how I was a disgrace and how things would be better if I were dead. She forced me to do the chores inside the house. I had to do the dishes, do the laundry, cook meals (I had no choice if I wanted to eat anyway) and clean the house. I did not even have time to do my homework. My grades dropped dramatically, giving her another reason to yell at me.
But despite everything, I wanted to make her happy, so I shut my mouth and did as I was told.
In the next summer after our arrival in South Park, she met that man whose name I can't remember. He wasn't nice, but he wasn't cold to me either. He told me that I was too pretty to live in a shitty place like this. Maybe he was trying to be nice to me, but I could not bring myself to let my guard down. It was a good thing that I did not. He said that he wanted to be friends with me and that we could get along very well. That was a bunch of shit. The bastard groped me and tried to fucking rape me while my mother was away. He did not succeed though, which I'm grateful of. I do not know what happened to him. He left one day and never returned. Of course, mom got all mad because of that. She accused me that I had not been nice enough to him so that was why he left. For the first time, she actually really beat the shit out of me. Yeah, I know, it sounds lame for a guy to say that he got beaten by his mother but it happens. She was bigger and stronger than me, if that's an excuse. And I was just too scared to fight back anyway.
This was just the beginning of the end. Things like that started to happen very often. If you want to know, yes, some of her crazy boyfriends actually raped me. But I can not really remember how it happened. I just do not want to remember. It is not the fact that I got raped that disturbed me the most, it is the fact that my mother knew and did nothing to stop that from happening. I guess that is when I realised that she did not give a shit about me.
I didn't cry. I rarely ever cry. I didn't feel sad because I lost the ability to feel a long time ago. I felt nothing and it was good that way.
That is what I thought until I met him. I cursed my luck. If I started to feel again, that would destroy me.