To whom it may concern: Thanks for reading! You just made my day!

And yes. The title is from a Blink 182 song.

So if you've been reading my other story ("He Came With No Memory"), you remember that one bit mentioned in chapter 13 about Gaz's mother. Well, here's the entire story. Hopefully after reading this, you'll understand just a bit more about why she's hurt so much in that chapter.

If you haven't been reading the story, don't worry. You don't have to in order to understand this. I just hope you enjoy reading. Eh, as close as you can get to "enjoyable" with this dark, sad, and woeful story.

Trust me, it is very dark. And very depressing. Hey, you're reading something that came out of my mind. You can't expect it not to get a little dark and/or depressing.

Told in Gaz's POV.

It starts eleven and a half years ago.

With a man named Membrant Membrane. He and his wife, Mrs. Mauricia Membrane, sat in the hospital, holding their brand new baby. They admired the infant, with its beautiful, white skin. And a head full of jet black hair.

The couple's first child.

They named him Dib, after his great-great-grandfather on his mother's side.

Oh how Mauricia loved that child. They took him home the day after (They had to stay overnight, because the doctors feared that there was something wrong with his head, which was suprisingly bigger than the average newborn's).

Mauricia spoiled that young child, played with him every chance she could, and never once was mad or upset with him at all.

Memrant, while he too loved the child, was much too busy to show it. His career in science was getting better and an increasing rate. He was becoming more well known, and had several new inventions to invent.

Well, about a year later, Mauricia found out that she was pregnant with another child. This surprised the couple, for they hadn't planned on having another one so soon. They had intended on keeping their children about three years apart. Being a man of science, Membrant, who had always been a rather paranoid person, had decided that it was healthiest for a mother have children no less than three years apart.

But the couple kept the child anyway, not wanting to take the risk of an abortion somehow going terribly wrong. And in around nine months and two weeks, the second child of Membrant and Mauricia was born. This time, it was a little girl. She, like their son, was born with a head full of hair, but this time, it was a deep purple, similar to her mother's natural hair color (It had been died so many times since; She liked to keep it a blond color).

There was, however, a bit of a scare. The child had come out rather silently. She didn't cry or scream. The nurses took her out of the room to check for any problems, but nothing seemed to be wrong. The doctors dismissed this as nothing to worry about, and returned the child to her parents.

Membrant held that child in his arms, and wouldn't put her down. It was the most beautiful little girl he had layed eyes on. With her purple fuzz on the top of her head, her pale skin, and what the scientist thought to be the most gorgeous big brown eyes a child could have.

The couple hadn't quite decided on a name yet. They thought through several names- Mauricia suggesting several, all being rejected by Membrant. He wanted something different. He wanted something beautiful. He wanted the kind of name that people would say was a lovely name. It had to be just a perfect as she was. But that was hard, as Membrant knew nothing could be as perfect as the little wide-eyed girl cradled in his arms.

When finally, it came to him.

"Gazriella," he whispered.

"Hm?" Mauricia questioned, not quite hearing him.

A bit louder, he said, "I've got it. Her name shall be Gazriella Elita Membrane. Or for short, Gaz."

Membrant thought it was perfect. It was beautiful, yet different. It was something people could say "wow" or "what a pretty name" to.

Mauricia went with it, as she was too exhausted to think of anymore names. Besides, she knew he wouldn't settle on any other name. Though she wasn't quite fond of the name, at least the child had a name.

And thus, I was born.

However, contrary to what my father wanted, and much different than my brother's average day, my life was horrible from the day I came home from the hospital.

My father became more and more busy. He spent most of the time down in the lab, where he couldn't hear anything going on up above. He had no idea that his "perfect little girl" was going through such a terrible life.

As for my mother, she was, for lack of a better word, a whore.

She really was. See, Dib was her perfect child. He behaved perfect, he looked perfect, and he was conceived and then born with perfect timing. All unlike me. I was, according to her, a bratty little girl who thinks she can get whatever she wants. I was a hideous little beast with freakish hair and bug-eyes. And the fact that I was born was to kill her, as I was conceived earlier than expected, and born two weeks past the due date. I could have 'caused severe health problems to her'.

Sometimes I wonder if, when she was yelling this at me, she knew what was wrong about her saying this. Like, how Dib's the one who got what he wanted when he wanted, whereas when I wanted something, I was screamed at for being a spoiled brat. Or whenever she told me that I looked like a freak. Because Dib's hair wasn't odd at all with that big scythe on top. And of course, his eyes weren't "bug-eyed" at all. And not to mention the size of his head.

No, I doubt she realized any of this. After all, as I said before, Dib was her perfect child.

Well, things only got worse as time passed.

Like several times at lunch.

"Lunch time," Mother would say, and both me and Dib would waddle up to the table. Well, Dib would at least. He had been taught how to walk properly. Mother hadn't even attempted to teach me. I would stand up, using a nearby object for support, attempt to take a step, and end up falling down again. This would anger my mother, and earn some more yelling and screaming at until I finally managed to get to the table.

Then Dib would sit in her lap, and she'd play with him while he ate his nice, warm macaroni and cheese.

As for me? I would get the same thing everyday- the leftovers out of the fridge. Most of the time, they were still cold. And then Dib would say, "Uh-kay! I done!" and mother would set him on the floor, and he'd go watch some TV. He had barely eaten any of his food.

And then I'd say something like, "Ida pfwigmy?" Which translated to, "Can I get down? Please, Mommy?" And of course, what did my mother do? She would scream at me, "Look at you! You've barely even touched your food! Finish your goddamn food, you spoiled brat!"

And so, it would take me hours. I didn't want to eat that cold food. It was the most nasty stuff, I swear. Until finally, mother would get sick of it. She'd come over and shove the food in my mouth, while I cried.

And that was lunch.

Now, of course I wasn't allowed to play with her child. So while Dib would be in the living room, watching TV, playing with his toys, as a child should be treated, I would sit alone in my room, with no one to talk to, no one to play with. All the toys in the room were Dib's. I didn't dare touch them, for fear of being caught and punished. So most of the day, I'd just alone in my room. I'd sit in the doorway every now and then, and watch my brother and his perfect, happy life. I'd dream of being able to live like he did.

But what I dreamed of more, was being able to play with my big brother.

Oh, how badly I wanted that. Can you imagine? A child forbidden to play with her own brother? To watch him everyday, and know that you will never be able to play with him. Dear reader, while you may think your sibling to be quite an annoyance, you obviously haven't gone through what I have. If you were in my shoes, you'd be wishing every day for a chance to even talk to him.

It's torture.

But there were times, every now and then, when I'd crawl down to my father's lab and I'd tug on his long, white lab coat. He'd then scoop me up in his arms, and continue with his work. And while he wouldn't say anything to me, or play with me, or anything like that, it was still the best feeling in the world to be in somebody's loving arms. To know that somebody still loved you.

I'd just lay there cradled in one arm, while he'd work on whatever he was working on with the other. And several times, I would fall asleep in his arms. And when I would wake up, I would be tucked into bed, cozy, and warm, with Tozie (my stuffed pig) right beside me. And I'd be smiling.

Smiling. A little two-year-old girl like me, who had been yelled at so many times, been neglected and cursed at by my mother. A two year old that couldn't walk and couldn't talk because her mother hated her too much to teach her. To wake up smiling, that was simply a miracle.

Of course, that smile would soon vanish, for as soon as I'd wake up, Mommy would scream at me for being a freak. I was a monster. I was a bloody shame to her. I was evil. I was hideous. I was a disappointment. I was a failure.

And then she discovered alcohol.

And all those problems that I was already facing everyday just got ten times worse. I can clearly remember the first night she came home with a bottle of liquor in her hand. She was screaming something at me, which I couldn't understand, as most of it was just drunk mumbling.

When I'd stumble to the kitchen for dinner, there would be a bowl of macaroni and cheese for Dib and absolutely nothing for me. After two days without eating, I decided I wouldn't even bother going to the kitchen anymore.

Big mistake.

Mother called for me to come to the table. I looked over and there was no food for me. So I didn't bother. I babbled something like, "Mmf mah!" which translated to "No!" and continued to sit where I was in the living room. She warned me again, and I decided it would be good idea to go now, before she got angry. So I put my hands on the couch, and lifted myself up, only to fall right back down as soon as I took my hands off the side of the couch.

"That's it!" Mother yelled. She stormed over and towered over me, and I swear lightening struck just then on the perfectly cloudless day. She bent down and as hard as she could, slapped me across the face just as hard as she could. Naturally, I burst out crying. She slapped me again.

"Quit your crying, you little brat," she yelled. Of course I cried harder. I had just been smacked across the face twice. And then she continued to beat me until I swear, I lost all sense of feeling in my face and left leg.

It got to the point where I didn't even want to wake up in the morning. To think, a two-year-old girl who wished she was dead. That's just sad, but I really did go to sleep, hoping that I wouldn't wake up in the morning. Of course, to a toddler, the thought of killing yourself would never even cross your mind, so that's out of the question.

And then, before I knew it, I was three. I really didn't know it until probably five months after my birthday. I didn't have a party or anything. It had been just another long, excruciating day of pain. Except, I had gone down to my father's lab that day, and he did speak to me. All he said was, "Well hello, my beautiful little girl." But it was out of the norm. Not that I had noticed.

But anyways, I was three years old on this particular day. Dib had started going to kindergarden, so he was gone most of the day. And I must say, that those few precious minutes when Mother was dropping Dib off were the best moments of the day, when she wasn't there. That was when I would usually sneak into the kitchen and get something to eat. But this day, Dad was dropping Dib off at skool. For some reason, Father wanted to be the one to drive him to skool. I later found out that the skool was having some sort of father-son activity.

So then it was just me and Mother. No one else. My heart was racing. As soon as the car pulled out the driveway, Mother screamed at me, and beat me. "You little monster!" she yelled. "Do you hate me?" She paused. Louder, she screamed, "DO YOU HATE ME!"

Terrified, I shook my head to say no.

"Well then WHY did you have to be born? You fucking hate me! That's why! You nearly killed me during the pregnancy! You weren't supposed to even be conceived until a year later! You wanted me to die! That's why you were born! Because you hate me!"

She beat me more, until I couldn't feel anything anymore. "Okay, if you hate me so much, then I bloody hate you! In fact, I hate you so much, I'm ashamed to be alive because I have to put up with the fact that I fucking gave birth to a little monster like you!"

She held her hand up, as if she were getting ready to smack me again, when suddenly, she stopped. She didn't say anything, she simply turned and walked into her room. I stumbled over there. Mother was rumbling around in her dresser for something. And then, she pulled out a gun. It took me a while before I realized what was going on.

She was going to kill me.

I burst into tears. Why was she doing this? Why did she hate me so much? And then she slowly pressed the shining pistol... to her head? As I said before, to a toddler, the thought of killing yourself would never even cross your mind. So of course, I was shocked when I saw what happened. My big, shining eyes were even wider with shock.


There was a thunderous boom that made me scream, and shove my hands over my ears. I opened my eyes, and there was Mommy. She was laying on the floor, with thick, red blood all over the floor. Mommy was dead.

I screamed, and stumbled away. I swear, I even rolled several times as I tried to escape the horrific scene. I hid behind the couch.

It was then that I decided the world was a terrible, hideous place and I didn't want to see any of it ever again. I didn't want to see anything anymore; good or bad. From that day on, I decided nobody would ever see these big, brown eyes ever again.

I heard the front door open, and in walked Daddy and Dib.

"We're home," Father called out. No one answered. "Honey?"

No reply. Dib ran into the living room, looking around. He found me crying behind the couch.

"Daddy! Daddy! I found Gazzie!" he shouted. "Are you okay, Gazzie? Why are you crying?"

I just cried louder. Father came and found me. "Gaz? What's wrong, daughter?"

He picked me up. I just cried some more. It must have pained him to see his perfect little girl crying like this. As he carried me in his arms, crying and sobbing, he began to approach his and Mommy's bedroom. I began to cry harder. The closer he got to the bedroom door, the louder I'd scream. It was my way of warning him not to go in there, I guess. But he didn't listen to me. He opened the bedroom door.

There was Mother, soaked in a pool of blood; unconscious. A bullet was lodged in her forehead. A gun laid beside her hand. Father set me down and rushed to her side. For the first time ever, I watched Daddy cry. I knew things were going to be different.

But in a good way, I suppose. Because now, Mother wasn't going to beat me anymore. She wasn't going to scream at me anymore. She wasn't going to curse at me. She wasn't going to tell me I'm a monster. She wasn't going to hurt me.

So now it's just sometime around eleven and a half years. Neither Dib nor Dad nor anyone else knows exactly how or why Mother was shot. They've guessed, of course, but they were all off. Very off. Who would have guessed that the reason Mom died was because she hated me so much? Nobody, because nobody knows what I went through for those three years of my childhood.

Dib hardly remembers Mom at all. So of course, everybody knows I don't remember her. They couldn't be more wrong. I clearly remember her. I couldn't forget. Not after that living hell. Of course, the reason everyone assumes I don't know her is because nobody's ever asked me if I remember her. Or course, I'd probably still deny that I remember her, just for the sake of not letting anybody know about her abusiveness to me.

And after eleven years, nobody's seen these golden eyes. And thanks to you, Mother, nobody ever will. Because you taught me three very important lessons:

1. The world is a hideous place.
2. You've got be perfect if you want to be loved by anyone.
3. I'm a monster.

And three questions:

1. Where are you now?
2. Are you happy there?
3. Why am I such a monster?

Thank you, Mother. Now these scars will never heal. I will never be okay. I will never forgive you.

And you will never be missed.

I told you it was dark and depressing.

Anyways, let me know what you think. R & R.

Invader Gigi out.