Banished From Humanity, Mike [most motivational books .txt] 📗

In a torrent of heavy rain and piercing hail, the realization of my despicable inability to relate with humanity struck like lightning, a recurring blitzkrieg, one that shocked my senseless naiveté into a void of no return. Sending mental thunderstorms to clash with my light, feeble, self-assuring words, my miniscule voice was drowned out, love and acceptance becoming mere lies, as the flood of amplified animosity and rejection spread hopelessness throughout my world, my asylum. The fury that engulfed me was that of flame, a constant, rapidly spreading chaos that licked at the binds of sanity, one that tore my innocence from me, charring my soul and leaving scars upon my arm that would never fully heal, scars that stained my once benevolent nature with blood. The flames consumed me hungrily, eating away my once celestial thoughts and bringing abhorrence towards my owners that compelled my formerly chaste self to maim and murder those who maltreated and mutilated me so. As the raging fire died out, my body suddenly grew cold and rigid, and it felt as though a thousand pounds of ice were being placed upon my back, cube by cube. The chilling, howling gale that met my soul was that of the mysterious, indestructible Depression, a demigod of deathly woe. Its eyes were transparent, absent of all feeling, and its gaze met no other. Its bloody corpse, foul and putrefying, reminded me of what was to come, the inevitable fate that awaited me.
“You’re so stupid,” one kid sniggered.
“Yeah, you’re like gay or something,” another added cruelly.
Numerous insults were hurled at me, each one growing in strength as the steady stream of loathsome words swamped my brain.
“Stop, stop!” I cried, my pleading tone becoming more and more obvious. “Just leave me alone!” My wails were ineffective, however, and all of the kids started to dance around me, pushing and shoving me, insulting me brutally. Tears slid off my face and my eyes burned. My vision was blurred from the intensity of my sorrow, and I felt powerless. The chorus of “Pussy! Pussy!” echoed off of other people, thus despoiling my self worth. I desperately longed for a release from this Hell, an end to the pain that would not diminish. I buried my face in my hands and wept, hoping that this sign of weakness would satisfy those bloodthirsty monsters that surrounded me and force them to vanish. This, unfortunately, was not the case, and a series of rapid footsteps sparked my curiosity. I quickly raised my head up, hoping to find the area clear of all people, but instead was met with a backhanded blow that left me sprawled out on the damp grass, blood pouring from my busted lip. Laughter erupted from the amused crowd, and it seemed to eternally torment me until I could tolerate it no longer.
I lost the ability to feel physical pain, but the emotional mark on my soul was still obliterating me internally. I felt physically unbeatable but emotionally drained, as the blood surged through my veins, empowering me and yet cursing me, as the loss of control created a new demon inside of me, one that would extend itself beyond just this moment of vehement rage. In a sudden flash, I was pouring not tears of melancholy, but tears of mounting frustration, as I repelled the pusillanimous behavior of my once pure soul and foolishly began to envelop my entire self with undying hatred. With what little courage I had in me, I sprang up from the ground and began to swing wildly at my enemy with the insatiable desire to kill. Much to his dismay, and afterwards my astonishment, I managed to knock him on his back, at the same time drawing blood.
As he fell, his “tough guy” act cascaded down around him, and his loyal friends, bound to him by nothing but social power, sought to aid him in my defeat. They grew enraged and abandoned their smiles, twisting them into expressions of aversion.
“Grab him!” a thunderous voice boomed demandingly. “Make him pay for knocking out Kyle!” Snarls of approval rang out and without warning I was seized by two behemoths, and my arms were yanked away from me, leaving me defenseless and immobilized.
“No, no!” I pleaded. “Please just leave me alone!”
“Why the Hell should I leave you alone, you scum?” a gargantuan boy who had just strode up to me snarled, spitting in my face. “You don’t deserve to live.” He began to repetitively assault me, grinning with demonic malevolence as his knuckles connected with my already throbbing head. Searing pain shot through me like I had never felt before, and my silent screams were to become my nightmares. After this dire event took place, I was the one chastised, not my sadistic torturers. I grew angrier and angrier day by day, the series of bloody brawls that followed constructing a web of poison, a trap that lay dormant within me but would soon become active as the years progressed. A fragment of my heart blackened and fell away, never to return. This was the sixth grade, the beginning of the end.
In time, I learned to absorb this anger, this umbrage towards humanity that I now possessed, and transformed it into self-loathing. The alteration that occurred in my already confused beliefs created corruption within me that remained inconspicuous for many years. Every insult fueled my rage, and I became blinded by its dominance, until even my own shadow taunted me. I heard the spoken language in a new way, as every word seemed to scream at me, defiling me further. Even the vaguest sense of dislike aimed at me became a deadly blow, and every hidden thought that others did not share with me became as clear as water. Every flaw in me, every error became my source of pain, the pathway to my mental destruction.
I had just received a perfect grade point average on my seventh grade first trimester report card. Feeling rather proud of this exceptional feat, I rushed over to my mother and sought only her compliment on my excellent performance. The grimace that appeared was not what I had expected.
“What is this shit?” she demanded. “You got a damned C in Music?” I tried to find an appropriate response, but all that came out was a whimper.
“I’m sorry.”
The disgusted look that washed over her face caused my entire body to tremble. “You useless pile of shit, why can’t you do anything right?”
“But mom!” I protested, “I still got all A’s in everything else!”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Why not?”
“Because you weren’t really trying. Look at this A. It has a minus sign after it. You weren’t trying. You never try, you little shit.”
“I wish you’d just accept me for who I am and not for what you want me to be.”
“It’d be easier to accept if you weren’t so damn retarded.”
I kept silent, not knowing who was right or wrong in this matter. Finally, I retorted, “I wish you weren’t my mother.”
“I wish you weren’t my son. And I bet that everyone in your school hates you, too.” She said this with a vile look upon her face, and immediately I began to doubt myself.
“Mom, am I really a retard?” I asked worriedly.
“Yes, you are. These A’s are nothing,” she said, gesturing lazily at the grade sheet. “I got A’s in all my classes, and I slept through them.”
“And,” she added, “I didn’t get any minus marks on my report card, or get any C’s in Music.”
“Mom, I’m not you! I can’t do what you can do! I can’t be what you could be!”
“That most certainly is true,” she agreed. “You cannot be me. But you can do better than you are doing right now.”
“No, I can’t!” I whined. “I can’t do any better than this!”
She turned to face me, a glint in her eyes. “Look around you, and you’ll find that every other person in your school can earn A-pluses in everything. Look around, and you’ll find that you’re the only one who struggles with homework. You’re the only one who can’t manage stress and handle easy tasks like taking care of your two siblings and getting your work done. Why, when I was your age, my mother would work late, and I would be responsible for the entire house: cleaning, cooking, and household chores. What do you do around the house? Nothing compared to what I did. You are a self-obsessed, self-centered piece of shit, just like your father.”
“My father?” I asked curiously. “I thought he was working as a teacher!”
“That’s not your real father,” she said, a smile forming on her face. “No, that’s your step-dad. Your real father was a no good, dirty, cheating, violent man. Do you know how come you never met him? Because when you were a baby, about five months old, he shook you around and put you in a coma. Because he didn’t want you. Nobody wants you. Nobody will ever want you.” She said this with such conviction that tears sprang out of my eyes, pouring out of me like a waterfall. I hid my face from her diabolical eyes, as I did not want her to arrive at my school, enter my classroom, and announce to the entire class that I had cried.
When we arrived home, I grew faint as depression harnessed my energy and began to feed. “What if this is all true? What if everyone does despise me?” I thought to myself. I fled to my room in anguish, and never again did I compliment my own achievements. Never again did I receive all A’s on my report cards, either.
My first attempt at love turned out to be an awakening of my senses. I was and still am terribly shy, but I did not realize that I was more than just timid. I had always believed myself to be ignored because of the annoyance I caused, the nuisance I was. That was not the only reason my voice went unheard, nor was it the first. It required time to unravel this hideous truth, time that would inevitably come to pass.
I decided that to try and win her love, I would write her a beautiful poem, as beautiful as the pristine aura that enhanced her so. It was written as follows:
Your blue eyes remind me of the raging sea,
so fierce and wild, so free.
Your blue eyes remind me of a perfect sky,
a place where all dreams lie.
Your shining white smile reminds me of fresh snow,
with perfection, it glows.
Your shining white smile reminds me of a pearl;
You are my perfect girl.
I was too shy to deliver the poem to her directly, so I asked someone to do it for me. He obliged, and all was well until she received the note. She let out a blood curdling scream. A crowd of people rushed hastily over to her aid, for she was the definition of beauty to even the females.
“What’s wrong?” they demanded of her.
She shuddered for a minute before she spoke.
“Him,” she whispered dramatically, pointing at me. “This ugly, disgusting, putrid freak wrote me this stupid piece of shit!” she shrieked, causing me to recoil in fear.
Everyone around her glared at me as if I had a mark of death branded on my arm, for they began to speak in harsh whispers that I could not interpret. Then a fierce expression came to meet me, and I recognized it as Jacob’s, the once supportive friend of mine.
“Please!”