It’s not very nice what they do—in the middle of the night when they don’t think anyone sees—but I see everything. I've seen that leaving a man’s life in another man's hands is a dangerous affair. If you make it out dead, with all of your fingers, eyes, and tongue intact, then you’re one of the lucky ones.

Makes me wonder why people enjoy inflicting pain on others. Is it the polar reaction, the psychological relief that they aren’t wearing the receiver’s shoes? Is it a sense of power—that the screams and tears streaming from the other person are from their own doing? That they are responsible? That they are capable? And as more pain floods the victim and the weaker they appear, the greater sense of betterment and power the inflictor feels—and when the victim is taken to the brink and falls dead at their feet—the instinct of survival of the fittest takes over. The weak have fallen—thus their life wasn't worthy to begin with, and the perpetrator of that pain and suffering is validated for their actions. Overcome by bloodlust, it becomes something deeper than the cutting of flesh and taking of life. Of ego and God, that with the wave of a finger the life of another can be taken—and thus will. It all goes back to hierarchy.

I want to be funny and tell jokes. I want to sit in the cafeteria like everyone else and enjoy my lunch, but it’s hard when these are the things I’m sorting in my head. And knowing where I am in the hierarchy. That even if I were to survive the longest and not shed a tear, or make a sound, or whatever strength I show when it’s my time to taste the dirt at my feet, it won’t be seen as strength, but defiance. So mad is the mind filled with God ego, that strength and the will to live is seen as defiance.

I am defiant by nature. My folks and old school teachers would've told you that. All my years growing up I’ve been defiant. But that’s because I always wanted something more. More than what my family could provide growing up, more than the schools could give, more than the money in my pocket could buy. And it’s a curse—wanting more. Better to just be content with whatever you have. If the little bit of money can’t get you what you want, let it buy you the drink that keeps those ambitions still. But I couldn’t kid myself. I knew what would happen when I woke up the next day. I knew that I wasted another night. That I turned off my brain. That I used the precious time that I have in this life to act like a submissive dumb shit. And that’s when the shame would fill me—and I knew I had a choice—either take another drink to forget or do something about it.

Well, I got tired of the drink and that brought me here, with you.