So many demons. So many vices. So little reason to be good.

Expectations of Mother is what killed me. I was never tall enough, strong enough; my hair always too curly, always a mess. My grades to low, myself too high. Metaphorically, high is close to Heaven. Quite the opposite. It puts you a stone’s throw from Hell.

Hell is hot, consuming. My soul is gasoline; it takes but a spark to ignite me. Fire-like temper, high with aggression. I hated the world, hated the people, but most of all Mother.

She killed me, you know. Her expectations gave me the gun. Her gaze, disappointed and demeaning, put the gun to my head. But it was her love, too much to take, that pulled the trigger.