April 18, 2008
Mom said it would do me some good to write about my feelings, but I think she’s just afraid I might snap. Another part of me thinks she wants to see concrete evidence of how much I actually want to fucking off them - or myself. Whichever comes first. Besides, the only thing she cares about is that large wad of money he throws her way to keep her trap shut. It means more to her than I ever fucking will, that’s for sure. Whoever claims that you can’t buy love - or, in this case, silence - is a fucking joke. I think the only reason she even acts like she loves me is because I came along to take the brunt of his anger away from her. Luckily for her, dad’s abuse is very one-tracked, and it looks like I’m the lucky winner. Wonder if she knows the same cock that he gives to her is the same one he shoves down my throat until I puke while she’s away on business. I don’t want to hate her, but it’s slowly starting to come to that. Gone are the days where it was just a solid blow to my head when he was pissed. Now he charges at me with rum on his tongue, and I just have to take it: whatever it is. I’ve tried to fight back and it never bodes well. I have enough scars and bruises to serve as evidence for that. The killer part of this entire fucked up reality is that, I don’t even know what or who I am yet; and, I’m being taught a lesson for it. Look, I like cock as much as the next faggot, but I don’t see why it’s such a big deal. On what grounds do I deserve punishment? Funny how bigots will scream about the logistics of homosexuality and why it’s a fucking sin; but, the second they get a little liquored up, it’s a sin they’re indulging in. I get it, I do. Dad’s a hoity toity lawyer with a stick so far up his ass, it’s tickling his tonsils. How could I possibly expect him to show anything other than perverse curiosity towards his already abused, prized possession of a son?
If I’m being honest here, the only thing I feel is the bruising on my fucking ribs from when that closeted cock-sucker woke me up a couple nights ago with a lovely blow to the side. And, mom, if you end up rifling through my shit and find this: I honestly can’t fucking wait for either of you to croak. Thank you so much for turning the other way like the ignorant, gold-digging bitch that you truly are. Do you feel safe knowing you birthed another punching bag to replace you? Does that extra clip of fifties he slips to you every week help you sleep at night? Think he’ll try and buy the rights to my silence? I sure as fuck hope so. It is my birthday after all. And where are you mom - out fucking some legal assistant like you're the star of your own law-based porno? How do you think daddy dearest is going to help me celebrate, huh?
I think I hear him coming up the stairs now.
Can’t wait to fucking find out.
