Inconsistent visits by the police were made to investigate the disturbances reported by the neighbours. A few quick questions asked, a caution maybe, and off they would go.
I read somewhere once that if someone spends a lot of time on one thing, no matter how laborious or disgusting, that person will get used to it. I wish that it could have been the same for me. I still flinch when I hear the odious shouting from downstairs and I still cry when things get from bad to worse. And then I am left in my room, huddling in the corner, all alone in the dark. Left there for… I do not know. Units of time are lost on me when I enter this cold gloomy hell.
I am meant to be in Year 11 at school. Of course you knew that, right Sir or Madam? Because you would have checked my records. You would have typed my number in and voila! All my details right in front of you… So yes, I am meant to be in Year 11 and I am 16 years old. But school is yet another place for me to be tortured and tormented. I do not have many friends; in fact, I do not have anyone at all that bestows meaning to the word “friend”. I do not even have enemies. So I am left there, isolated, to ponder over my thoughts. And once I have done that, I ponder over them some more. Maybe, if there is still time, I go through them one last time. My mind is my only companion, but unfortunately, it is not a very friendly one.
I am that mute boy in the corner of the classroom, invisible. Having nothing better to do, I listen to my poisonous brain, as it echoes parental voices; maligning me and crushing all dreams of a better future.
The school work does not interest me. I have no need for funny ideas like algebra or synonyms, metaphors and such. Girls do not interest me either. In fact, I have not even acknowledged myself going through puberty. My life is a monotonous cycle, a silent black and white film compared to the lives of others.
I do not know where I am leading you, but please bear with me. I write as I think, and because I cannot think, it is hard to write.
I expected myself to be angry at someone, or everyone. But I am quite at peace and although I blame a few people, I cannot say that I am mad at them. Let them live their lives. They shall soon see the wrongs of their ways. Let them fulfil the rest of their lives drenched with guilt.
Who do I blame, you ask? I blame Mr Brett and Mrs Brett fore mostly, who cared for materialistic objects only, and who could not pronounce a small word like son. Then I blame my teachers and my fellow class mates, who stood by and done nothing when I was drowning myself in my blood-like agony. And I blame you; for not putting two and two together, for not taking seriously the things that went on in my household.
All of you helped contribute to my murder, my mental homicide. It will be my own hands that deal my death, but it was all of you that sentenced me, like a cold hearted judge. It is all of you that have painfully forced me into isolation, melancholia and finally, Death.
But thank you nonetheless for taking the time to read my letter. The venom of my peers has finally put me down for good. I no longer anticipate a non-existent “better day” or a “life of peace”. Only in my death will I finally rest. . Knowing that this letter will be read with some interest makes me happy. The last few heartbeats beat for you kind Sir, kind Madam.
I know I am being too childishly optimistic when I say this, but I really hope that some good will come of this. That one day, something similar will be happening somewhere else, and my letter will be picked up and read, and will stop that certain story coming to the same end as mine…
I know. What a foolish notion to have, in a world like this.
Yours sincerely,
John Brett
P.S. I hate you. I hate you all…
