He stood still, standing in the upstairs bathroom, a full moon’s illumination lighting up his face in the vanity mirror. The blank expression staring back at him, haunting with its false complacency, practiced in carrying on the “all is well” façade, mocked his inner turmoil. Finding himself at the end of his rope he was climbing, the proverbial thread tethering him to keep on day after day, worn and abraded by the sharp crags and crevices life threw at him…was this the jagged edge that finally severed it all? Staring into his moonlit reflection, peering for a glimpse of his soul to appear before him…a reassuring thought, a feeling of sorts….anything at all….

Nothing.

All he ever wanted was to be loved. From his childhood, a broken home filled with violence and abuse, the only way attention came his way was when he did something worse than his siblings, and received the belt or the cigarette butt from his parents.

His parents abuse made him feel noticed…it was the only attention he could draw.

His parents were divorced: mom was almost always working and when she put down the empty bottle, a man usually accompanied her into bed, a different man, night to night. The sound of bed squeaking and moaning through the walls interfered with his studying. What did grades matter anyway? Studying earned him being humiliated by his elder brother and his friends…his elder brother had no escape from the prison he was in, why should anyone? Instead, deception would slither like slippery silk from his brother’s forked tongue, tall tales of disobedience about the young boy stealing, to defer the wrath of mom toward him instead. Mom would allow the temporary sex friend to beat the boy, his older brother mocking him crying and laughing all the while. It’d be a while before he would see the outside world, to let the physical bruises heal. Underneath it all, the scarring would never go away. At school, he would never complete his assignments, stared at the floor, and would shake when he spoke. Trembling, never knowing what would happen if he said the wrong thing, after all, “bad boys deserve to be punished”.

Mom made certain he identified himself as a “bad boy”.

Dad would visit on occasion and rescue him from the physical prison by taking him for a weekend or two a month, if he actually showed up. Dad seemed listless, and although affectionate, completely withdrawn. In fact, many times he’d find himself watching cartoons, the one’s his dad told him were too violent for him, for hours while dad sat at the table, staring into his same bowl of oatmeal he wasn’t actually eating, until dad would ask,

“Does your mom say anything about me?”

“No, not really.”

“Oh.”

If he actually bothered to pay attention to his son instead of wallowing in his own troubles, he’d have noticed the bruises his offspring kept hiding by pulling down his sleeves in the hot apartment everytime his dad’s head would turn his son’s direction.

His grades stayed low, and dad, who now took a more vested interest in his son took him to a psychiatrist. He told his psychiatrist about the bullies at school that would make him act out; a marionette on the strings of the group of “friends” that would only show him signs of approval if he did what they wanted. The wrong crowd was the only crowd that took an interest in him. If his conscience objected, he’d lose those giving him attention. His only positive in life was attention in the least painful way possible, and his body could endure only so much more physical pain. The teachers didn’t like him, he acted out whenever encouraged to, and hiding his signs of physical abuse, he changed quickly in the locker rooms, and provided a fake doctors note to the gym teacher claiming his allergies to chlorine to avoid swimming, and also avoid bearing all the scars and bruises for the world to see, his biggest shame.

After all, “bad boys” had reasons to be bruised and scarred, they did something to deserve it.

The psychiatrist ran a battery of tests on the boy, mental exercises and IQ tests, and after all was said and done, the session was over, and back to his mom’s home he went. Mom was at work tonight, so he sat in front of his Super Nintendo, playing Final Fantasy 3 for hours, pretending he was a hero in a fantasy; an escape from being a “bad boy”. He never wanted to be bad. One day, his “friends” pressured him into pulling down the pants of the only girl who’d ever been nice to him. She started crying uncontrollably, betrayed by this boy who she only wanted to be a friend to. The group laughed as the rest of the school started following suit, as did he also, to keep the facade intact; this group was his identity. After school was done, he faked out the staff and ditched his bus, walking home crying the entire 5 miles, crushed by the guilt of what he’d done. He could empathize with her and honestly, felt she was one of the only people who treated him like he saw other people treat each other, that “normal” interaction he had no practice in doing. The other person, however sparsely it was, came from his dad. This role-playing game on his Super Nintendo was his one escape. And music. He used to hear songs on the school bus that he would love hearing and could listen to on repeat for hours, but he’d never have music. Nobody would buy it for him, he’d have to steal it…and he didn’t want to steal, because the only thing keeping him going was the idea of fighting against this identity of him being a “bad boy”.

But he was scared to openly fight that image.

Terrified, in fact.

Fighting back meant getting hurt….why would he want to endure more pain?

His dad took him into the psychiatrist again, his mom making a rare appearance as well to discover the results of the previous tests and session that took place. They determined two things.

“I know you are eager to learn the results of last week’s session, so I’ll tell you where I think he is at. He is suffering from depression, and attention deficit disorder. That’s the mental state, and I have prescriptions ready for those…”

Mom’s ears suddenly perked up.

“In addition, I’d also like to suggest that he be given every opportunity he can to succeed, tutoring, or if private education is something attainable. It’s possible that organizations may want to sponsor him as well, I have some brochures and fliers I can-“

Mom spoke, “What are you talking about? We don’t have any money for any of that.”

Dad interjected, “What exactly are you saying here?”

“Your son tested highly in every category, especially spatial relations and intuition, with a score of 163.”

“Wait, what does that mean??? He’s….”

“A genius.”

After proving the scientific findings and dribbling on about what came next, it all meant the same to him. Back home to the torturous life he endured. So, after they received the prescriptions, back home he went. Mom was gracious enough to get his adderall and paxil prescriptions filled, and stopped on the way back to her boyfriends house to give the newly acquired drugs to him so he could sell them on the street. After all, “bad boys” need to pay back their parents and be grateful for everything they have.

Years went on and the boy started working out. His scarred heart and body tempered the flames of anger and resentment he had built up over the years. His “friends” had formed a gang, he somehow had managed to steer clear of it, for now. The price he paid for standing up for himself got him pistol-whipped, and an oil lamp thrown at the back of his head, exploding on the back of his skull and igniting his shoulders and back on fire. The scars helped blend in his other scars over the years, but this one felt different; it was one to be proud of. In the end, his self-consciousness never let him get close enough to anyone to let them see the extent of damage others could do to someone.

Mom was working more, despite having the drug addict boyfriend around passing wads of hundreds around like Halloween candy to children, and it allowed him some breathing room. In fact, on Halloween his mom’s boyfriend’s “clients” would be so brazen as to dress up in costumes and get handed wads of the drugs right at the door. For years, he overheard his mom brag to some junkie friend of hers on the phone about how much money they’d make on Halloween. Until one year, the drug bust happened. Somehow the cops must have picked up on their cash cow operation and came in with the swat team. He never saw mom again, however in a rare turn of responsibility on her part, she had gotten the house paid off.

He had gotten to know God a little. He figured he had nothing to lose by trying it out. He kept praying and praying for a way out, and he’d talk to God while walking through the woods by his house. He especially liked walking through the woods at night. And music…his dad’s birthday present to him was a cd player and headphones…a $15 escape for him. He’d walk to the library and check out cds and take them home to listen. He fell in love with one song in particular: Bittersweet Symphony by The Verve. He’d never felt something so strongly as the piece of mind, that transcendent feeling that something, or someone, finally understood him. Alienated by everyone, he stood alone. But he had the strength to carry on because he felt that something, this song, finally captured his life.

Strangely enough, his relationship with God was stronger than with anyone else. God was the only constant in his life. His dad remarried someone, and he’d be lucky to see his dad once a year, now. Girls had taken notice of him and he started talking and trying to flirt with them back, very poorly, despite somehow with luck, developing an attractive face and decent physique. He was still scared of being misunderstood. He had to hide his past, no matter what. Nobody else knew what he went through, and how could they even fathom the depth of it all? He learned how to adapt and carried a smile despite knowing deep down, he was all alone.

God was all he had. Whether or not talking to God made a difference or not, he didn’t know. But at least it gave him something to keep going day to day, even if it was a fabrication of a belief.

Nobody else had a chance of really knowing him.

Until he fell in love…

She changed his outlook on life. Little by little she found out more about him and despite it all, she stood her ground, right beside him. He believed in the soulmate idea for the first time and he wanted her with him forever. They did everything together, walk, baseball games, parties, you name it. He started to not only come out of his shell more, but he found out when he tried, people actually didn’t seem to dislike him.

They really liked him, actually.

He was always considerate, he was always on guard for how others would see him, so he offended nobody, always able to tiptoe out of confrontation and keep peace, even though a few scraps he’d been in before, he knew he could handle himself just fine. And if it came down to it, he knew where his 9mm was at home; a parting gift from the gang as they ran from the cops after setting him ablaze. But he’d never use it, he preferred tranquility and good vibes, as one could imagine.

They grew older and traveled to several places. She came from a family with some wealth, at least by his standards. They had a cabin…he’d never been camping before. Fishing was a favorite pastime they shared together. They belonged together.

One night after he had finished working, he returned home to hear a voicemail on his phone; his girlfriend was out on the I35W bridge when it collapsed. She was dead.

He stood there motionless, the phone disconnecting the call and making its tone reminding him it was off the hook…reminding him that his soulmate was ripped from him. He didn’t know what to feel. It didn’t seem real…he walked around his house looking at the pictures on the walls of the two of them, the picture of her first catch of a tiny little perch being held outstretched from the fishing line as she was squeamish of it touching her, to a picture of the two of them being silly dressed up on Halloween as zombies, biting each other’s arms as a friend of theirs took the snapshot. Friends called as well as family of his girlfriend, pouring out their love and support for them all in this terribly tragic time, and they all grieved mutually.

He suffered the worst. The attention went to her family first, neglecting that this person, the only one he truly had, was ripped from him. He wanted to long for her, he wanted to feel something besides this dull, empty feeling he carried.

Nothing seemed real.

Some time went by, and nothing seemed to change. He still felt nothing. The support of his friends and their family gave way to silence through a non-ringing phone, no new facebook alerts nor real correspondence of any kind. Not knowing what to do, he prayed to God. Heading into the woods by his house, his solace, he talked to the only one who truly knew him, now especially, if God was even there. He was angry. Angry at the life that this God forced him to live, forced circumstances for him to endure…and for what? Was he supposed to never be happy? He was angry that God took her away from him, part desperate to feel understood, accepted, and loved again…until finally…

This night.

He stared into that mirror.

This was it.

He put on his worn out hoodie and jeans, slipped on his shoes and grabbed his last present from his dad, that cd player and headphones. Bittersweet Symphony blasted on repeat as he walked towards the woods, clouds now rolling in and starting to drizzle a light misty rain. Looking up into the sky, once the place where all the wishes he made in vain on shooting stars, now blanketed by the clouds, he yelled out to God.

“Is this all there is for me?!”

The lyrics filling his ears:

No change I can change I can change I can change
But I’m here in my mold I am here in my mold
And I’m a million different people from one day to the next I can change
My mold, no, no no, no no

Dropping to his knees now, his eyes welling up with tears as the raindrops splattered off his face, he started crying….the lyrics kept going

I need to hear some sounds that recognize the pain in me, yeah
I let the melody shine, let it cleanse my mind I feel free now
But the airwaves are clean and there’s nobody singing to me now
No change I can change-

Whimpering, and shaking, half from being cold and half from the thoughts racing through his mind, he reached into his pocket of his hoodie, pulling out his 9mm.

He hesitated a bit as he cocked the hammer and placed the gun tip at his temple, crying all the while.

His hand shaking, he gave out a scream, the loudest scream he could to the horribly unfair world around him, all to the sound of one singular shot fired into his head.

The song continued…

I’ll take you down the only road I’ve ever been down
I’ll take you down the only road I’ve ever been down
Cause it’s a bittersweet symphony, yeah.

He dropped the gun…in his mind, he was unlucky, once again.