Magnus-angst :(

Song: Unwell by Matchbox 20.

This is one of my favorite songs ever. It's kind of sad, because it's about mental illness, which I know a crapload about cause my brothers bipolar and schizophrenic and etc. But it's apparently a really good description of how it feels.

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. NOTHING. Trust me, I'm a doctor ;)

Growing up was never easy, never as painless as stories say they are. But when you're born with devil-eyes, born so innocent but oh-so cursed, your childhood is hell on earth.

Momma loves me, she told me so. But every night she cries for me, cries for her baby boy, her pride and joy, born evil. Every day for thirteen years, I've woken up in this room, woken to the sounds of momma humming happily downstairs, and father outside in his workshop.

I'm not allowed to go into town, Momma says. She says Father thinks that if anyone saw me, they'd try to kill me. I don't know why, but Momma just gives me a look that tells me the answer-my eyes. Slanted and smooth, a startling green color. But it's the pupils-slitted like a cat's-that scared them.

And since I can't go into town, I can't go to school. So I don't have any friends. I am terribly lonely.

All day staring at the ceiling
Making friends with shadows on my wall
All night hearing voices telling me
That I should get some sleep
Because tomorrow might be good for something

I dress quickly, woolen pants and a linen shirt. I walk slowly down the stairs, as to not startle Momma. It had happened before-I ran down the stairs, excited for one reason or another, and I'd scared her.

I made sure to make noise as I entered the kitchen, and Momma turned around, smiling at me, slightly strained. My Momma was the prettiest woman in the world, with long black hair, the lightest caramel skin, and almond-shaped blue eyes. I wished that I'd been born looking like her-with her eyes, blue and angelic.

Hold on
Feeling like I'm heading for a breakdown
And I don't know why

She feeds me quickly, thinking (wrongly) that I won't notice that she fills the bowl and slides it across the table to me, instead of handing it to me. That she pats my shoulder instead of hugging me. That when I look at her, she looks down and her eyes water...

But at least she thinks I won't notice. Father doesn't care. Doesn't care that I notice how he stares at me, and then looks at Momma. They've talked about having another child, but Father says that he doesn't want to try, in case... And they look at me. Or rather, they look near me. They don't look at me, in my eyes...

But I'm not crazy, I'm just a little unwell
I know, right now you can't tell
But stay awhile and maybe then you'll see
A different side of me
I'm not crazy, I'm just a little impaired
I know, right now you don't care
But soon enough you're gonna think of me
And how I used to

I eat the oatmeal she gives me quickly, gulping it down. During the day Momma gives me books to read and slate to write on. This is the one time when Momma smiles at me, a real smile, because I'm smart. I always try to make Momma smile, because it makes me think that maybe, if someone so angelic can smile on someone as evil and cursed as me, maybe I'm not a lost cause.

After I finish eating, I go sit down and wait for Momma to come in. On a shelf near the hearth there is a wooden box. We got it when we-yes we, Momma, Father, and I-all went to a neighboring town.

I was a young boy of six, excited for my first trip out of the little grove that we lived in. Father even smiled at me, and I felt a rush of pride. Now that I was older, he loved me.

The trip started out fine, I loved the town. But then people started noticing us-or rather, me. They looked at me, whispering and staring at me.

I'm talking to myself in public
Dodging glances on the train
And I know, I know they've all been talking 'bout me
I can hear them whisper
And it makes me think there must be something wrong with me
Out of all the hours thinking
Somehow I've lost my mind

A woman turned and pointed, and a man pulled a young girl out of our path. I could hear the whispers, things like 'devil-child', 'cursed', and much worse.

The words scare me, they make me pull back tight against Father, but he pushes me away. I look up at him and Momma, my long lashes brushing against the cinnamon of my skin as I gaze at them.

He's looking steadfastly away, not touching me. He pushes me away when I get closer, and Momma does to, although she's crying as she does it.

That's when I realized it. They were right. My Momma and Father didn't love me... they were right. I was evil. I was cursed, a devil-child, evil.

Momma hadn't come out of the kitchen yet. I went in to see if she needed help, making sure to bang my shoulder into the wall so she'd hear me coming. She wasn't in there, but the door was open, leading to the barn.

I left the house, scraping my bare feet across the ground as I followed the path, looking up only once to gaze across the yard to where my Father stood, chopping wood. It would be getting cold soon.

I peeked through the barn door, not seeing her. I slipped in, calling out once.

"Momma? Momma, are you in here?" I yelled, taking a few steps. Then I saw her.

I was vaguely aware of a high-pitched keening noise, but my eyes were riveted to the sight of my Momma, my angel, swinging from the rafters. I realize that the high-pitched noise is me, screaming and screaming and screaming.

Father rushes in, pulling me back. I scream and scream and scream some more, pulling away. It's my fault, all my fault.

He shoves me in my room, locking the door. He says I'm evil, I'm sick, I killed her, killed her by taking away her only hope. He says I'm crazy, I'm horrible.

But I'm not crazy, I'm just a little unwell
I know, right now you can't tell
But stay awhile and maybe then you'll see
A different side of me
I'm not crazy, I'm just a little impaired
I know, right now you don't care
But soon enough you're gonna think of me
And how I used to be

I cry so hard and so much I feel dried out.

Momma, Momma...

I sob for her, desperate for the feeling of her smile, like sun breaking over clouds. Desperate for the feeling of her arms around me, delicate but strong.

I curl up on my bed, my sobs a lullaby, willing me to sleep. It's a fitful sleep, and I talk through it, pleading with Momma to come back. Come back. I'll be better, I'll be good. I promise, I'll be better!

I've been talking in my sleep
Pretty soon they'll come to get me
Yeah, they're taking me away.

He comes for me at dusk, pulling me out of bed and dragging me down to the river. I'm still half-asleep, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes.

Some part of me think's it's a dream. Momma will be at the river, turning around and smiling, beckoning to me. Maybe Father will finally teach me to fish. Maybe he'll hug me and say he's proud.

"I'm sorry. You're-you're unnatural. You killed her, you killed her! I loved her, my sweet girl, the love of my life. She loved you, even though you were... you're such a freak. I'm sorry... my son. My-"

He breaks off as he tosses me into the river. I gasp wildly as I surface, flailing in the water. He stands there, knee-deep as he shoves me into the water again and again.

I'm not crazy, I'm just a little unwell
I know, right now you can't tellBut stay awhile and maybe then you'll see
A different side of me
I'm not crazy, I'm just a little impaired
I know, right now you don't care
But soon enough you're gonna think of me
And how I used to be

"I'm sorry, my son... My wife, my... I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm..."

His words faded as he drowned me... I barely struggled.

He was right. I was...



a freak








My natural instinct to survive took over, though. And my hands went up, grasping at the arms that were no longer there. He hadn't even stayed to drown me. He was on the riverbank, tears streaming down his face, sobbing for the loss of his wife.

Blue flames erupted from my hands, and he looked up, his face a picture of terror and devestation.

Yeah, how I used to be
How I used to be
Well, I'm just a little unwell
How I used to be
How I used to be

I stared in horror as my father burned before me. My fault. I was evil. Evil.

Only evil people killed other people.

I killed my father, I killed my mother.

So I must have been evil.

Years later people would tell me I wasn't evil, I was just a little... different. Unwell. But it still stayed with me, the accusing eyes and the whispers... until one night, when, as a party raged on behind me, I looked into the eyes of my very own blue-eyed Angel.

How was it? Horrible? Wonderful? Horribly wonderful? Hate me? Love me? Hate to Love me?

Tell me in a...

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