Death surrounds, inevitable it comes as it may please, Through violence or age or of oft disease

  Just this dawn I've had another taken from me, so I must once again face within a truly ugly beast

  Because my aunt has died and I feel nothing

  I was the last to learn, 'We knew you could wait, you're tough.' Why is it that you think that makes it just?

  I can't fault your logic, I am a man of fact, but somehow you actions smack of dubious respect

  Because of my strength I must bear these great burdens? Must I always be the man forced to endure then?

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  When can I lay down my suffering and just rest? Why, for other's sake, must I always be at my best?

  I'm not okay. I still dieing, day by day.

  Who comes to care for me? Who comes of my so-called Family? No one.

  Why am I so disgusted with myself for being what you made me? Why can't I tend my needs without this restless guilt?

  Why must I provide but never be provided for? Was this pack of parasites what I gave my 'best' years for?

  My aunt is dead and I felt nothing, so why do I hate myself?

  Why do I loathe this heartless monster you forced me to become!?

  Why after this insult to my character do you expect me to lead the funeral charge!?

  Why must I fight your battles unsupported? Because I was a mistake you wanted aborted!?

  Because you hated yourselves and thrust that shame until me? Why can't I cut you away and just be free?

  My aunt is dead... so why is this about me? You loved her didn't you?

  But you hate yourselves more, isn't that right?

  luxury of being able to unpack all my fucked-up shit; it's always been juggling fires one to the other to the next without a pause to get my head on straight. And now that I've finally got some time, I'm learning that I never healed right. I'm all crooked, inside and out. No wonder my writing is so bleak...

  that's the damage. But it's the same as it always is with me. I'm numb to that fact. I can't bring myself to care. It's like... It's like there's a part of my brain that just doesn't work. I would say my heart's all dickered, but it actually is so there's a bit too much irony to that. I know it but I don't give a shit. My background suffering is too high for the death of a close family member to reach me through all the noise.

  that--that deep nothing inside of me--that's what eats at me. Gnawing at the remnants of my soul. I can't bring myself to care about anything beyond my own agony-- and even that I'm quite disillusioned with. Maybe that's the same thing as caring, but I doubt it.