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Journal #25

Who: Higgs When: Writing year unknown Where: Unknown

My mama entrusted me to her brother, so he had no choice but to raise me best he could. Say what you will about the man, but he had himself a sense of obligation. He might even have harbored a measure of affection for me, but whatever was in his heart he expressed with his hands. His fists.

Any hopes and dreams he might have had for me— for us— fell by the wayside pretty quick. We slipped into a daily routine of warnings to stay the fuck inside, bookended by beatings to drive the point home. I think sometimes he sincerely believed that was the only way to protect me, but I wasn't about to go on living like that. Can't cage a young boy's spirit. If I'd stayed, I'd've died, body and soul. I had to get out. Started hoarding supplies in secret, but he caught on.

That was the beginning of the worst beating yet. He was grabbing anything and everything within reach that could be used as a weapon. Tearing our shelter apart, smashing furniture, all the while wailing like a wounded animal, tears streaming down his face.

He pinned me down, tears and spit flying in my face as he blubbered on about me not understanding his pain. His fucking pain. His hands round my neck, darkness creeping in from the corners. His fucking pain. His fucking pain.

The kitchen knife in my hands. In his neck. His hands, his fucking hands, they grow weak, and he just... deflates. Like a balloon, all over me. I roll him off, and I look into his glassy eyes, filled with his fucking pain and our steel sky.

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