User talk:FOR.YOUR.OWN.GOOD.

FOR YOUR OWN GOOD

Has it ever occurred to you that safety is simply an illusion of the mind? Well, I'm sorry to tell you this, but that's all it really is. That's all it ever was, and all it ever will be. Safety was never a sanctuary, it was a lie; it was never a guardian with open arms, it was a monster with bloodstained claws. And to top it all off, it was a cruel and selfish lie told by none other than the ones you loved, to keep the fear away, to help rid of the nightmares. Did you really believe them all this time? Did you truly think that you are exempt from the danger? I'll ask once more. Has it ever occurred to you that safety simply doesn't exist?

...Of course. I expected someone like you to disregard what's important. Well, my clueless companion, I'll have you know that it has, in fact, occurred to me. And it did so at a very young age, when "safety" was supposed to be my sanctuary, and when "love" was supposed to mean the same thing as affection, and not abandonment.

It went like this, you see.

I grew up as a city girl. Wish I could provide you with a name. Can't really remember anymore, but I can recall that it was a large and bustling city that seemed to have sprouted up in the middle of an isolate desert. Don't get me wrong; there were other towns nearby and the number of people was enough to pollute the entire earth. But it always still felt empty, and I can't really say why. I was six years old. Not a very stunning one, what with my short red hair and ugly green/grey eyes. I was always smaller than the other kids, always weaker and lesser. I was bullied, yes, but the teachers always told me that I was safe from their taunts, because sticks and stones could break my bones, but names would never hurt me. So I disregarded their taunts. I remember a small playground, a gray sky, and a swing that, despite the lack of wind, would always sway back and forth. Mama said, "It's just the way things work, Darling. What we can't discern, we can't understand. What we can't understand, we ignore."

This was my downfall. I couldn't make out the dangers, so I never understood what it was. And I ignored them. I was six years old. Not a very smart one, as I was always disregarding the lessons and laughing at the teacher's over-eagerness when it came to group activities. "Why do they make us learn all of this ridiculous stuff," I asked one day, "When I won't be needing it in the future? What will Patty-Cake ever do for me?"

Teacher then told me that I had a jumpstart on my English. She said that I was a fast learner, I just wasn't dedicated and didn't take education seriously. She made me stay in after school and take advanced lessons, to which I had no choice but to comply. Which was fine. A few days before this school year started, Mama died. She was hit by a car because she was not being safe out on the streets. My father was never one for parenting. After her sudden death, he locked himself in his room for the rest of his life. I'm not exaggerating; he must have eaten and slept when I was at school or something, because he never came out of his bedroom, and told me to leave him alone when I knocked on the door. I began to think he was avoiding me. I know not if he had other women-company over or was simply sulking deeper into his depression, for I never heard a sound. I was alone, and left to my own devices.

Not that I cared at all, mind you. I was spending more and more time with my teacher, and less time at home with my grief-stricken father. This was not so bad at first. On the contrary, it was very much enjoyable. I was, as she put it, "the most smart, sophisticated, and mature little girl" she ever laid her eyes on. I was flattered, I really was, but the more and more time I spent with her, the more I felt the urge to call her "mother". It slipped out one day, and she was fine with it. So that's how it stayed, although I still thought it polite to call her teacher when others were present.

A few months passed, when I began to notice the foul smell coming from the fridge. I refused to eat at home anymore because of this reason. The food had gone bad. And how do you expect a six year old to go grocery shopping? I got my free meals from school, and the occasional brain-fuel the teacher gave me. I would not tell her my father didn't feed me anymore; I was smart enough to care for myself, and I did, for the most part. I was a very skinny child, as you could imagine. The smell had become unbearable, so I took it upon myself to empty the fridge and put all of the bad foods in the trash. But still, the smell remained. So I took out the trash and threw it in out backyard, walking back into the house with a triumphant grin on my face. But still, the smell remained. I scrubbed out the inside of the fridge with smelly soap. The smell remained. I cleaned out everything in the kitchen until it was spotless. The smell still remained.

I opted to ignore it and went off to school. Mind you, my school is about a mile from my house, amongst a number of busy streets and crosswalks crowded with impatient people wanting to get from one place to another. In the mornings it was the worst, as I was often pushed about by all of the older, taller people whose whereabouts were, as far as they were concerned, much more important than mine own. After teacher released me from my involuntary lessons, an hour our two after regular school hours, it wasn't any calmer, but people weren't in such a hurry. They weren't willing to push me around as they were before. They were less rude. My regular schedule usually consisted of me getting to the school at around 7:30 AM and, depending on what lesson I was being taught afterwards, leaving at 4:30 PM and arriving home around half an hour later. Mother's saying still held true; people couldn't discern why a child my age was walking by herself, and they didn't understand my situation, so they ignored me. I continued walking to this schedule.

On this particular day, however, the teacher was excited, said that there were people who wanted to meet me who thought I was an exceptional and intelligent young girl. I never felt so happy in my life. On the day it happened, she had me stay after for more than just an hour or so, for when she finished (I can't remember what she was teaching or who she said these people were), it was already eight. It was dark outside.

She said, "I should probably give you a ride home. Haha, I don't think your father would be happy with me if I let you walk home this late at night." So she did, and I vaguely remember getting into the car and going back to my house. She muttered something about the funny smell in my house, eyeing the dirty living room suspiciously before confessing that she wanted to talk to my father about my future, as it was looking better than she and I ever dreamed possible. I was slightly nervous, because as far as I was concerned, my father did not want to be spoken to. I was probably the last person he wanted to see, and this was the first time I'd be talking to him in months. But teacher was adamant, and so I went up to his door and knocked.

"Daddy?" I said. He did not respond.

"Daddy, mam- my teacher is here to talk with you. She says it's super important." Still no answer. I opened the door anyway.

The moment I did, the disgusting smell wafted through the doorway and filled my lungs. My eyes burned and I coughed at the horrible odor.

Only when I looked up to see my father's lifeless rotting body dangling from the ceiling did I finally understand the dreadful feeling that had been welling up inside of me for as long as I can remember. I found, at that moment, that I could not move. I could not turn and run away from this sight, and it burned into my head, imprinted itself onto the back of my eyelids. I had been paralyzed, not by fear, or sadness, or shock... but by curiosity. How long had he been there? Why had he done it? Did it hurt? Did he struggle? Did his neck snap, or was he there, coughing and choking and sputtering until his body ultimately shut down? Why did he leave me? Did he not want to protect me? Was I not good enough? Did he blame me for mother's death? Was he mad at me? Angry at me? Disappointed in me?

Teacher came in some time after that. But after this ordeal, the events following became a hit and run. There are only flashes of what actually happened in my hazy, dreary memory now: people with badges and suits surrounding me and asking me all these stupid questions I had no answers to; a sour birthday; people staring at me with pity and remorse and anger; sour birthday; teacher holding me and petting my hair and telling me that I would get better soon; another bland and meaningless celebration. Last I recall, they said I was sixteen, and my sweet sixteen birthday wish was that I'd never been born, and that my parents would still be alive. Then, more people in suits, more questions, more sadness and pills and hugging and loneliness and crying and spinning and insanity. I comprehended none of it, because the monsters were always in the way, towering over me, threatening me, telling me that I was not safe. They knew more than anyone, I suppose. I cut my hair short often, they wouldn't stop pulling it, wouldn't stop pulling me up from the ground and hanging me from the ceiling by it. I only remember ever having short hair like a boys, which people pointed at and laughed at me for. But I couldn't remember their names.

The only memory that really stands out was the one where I killed teacher. It wasn't an accident, per se, it was.... at the very least, an overreaction. She held her arms out to me and told me that I was safe now, and that she could be my mama. I did not know that I had beaten her face raw and picked out her eyeballs with my fingertips until after the fact, when I was staring down into the bloodied eyes cupped in my hands and thinking, I wonder if she can still see that she is not safe.

And as I felt the damp, stringy red veins dangling from her eyeballs between my fingertips, I thought, No. Not yet. So I dragged her out into the backyard, thrust my hand down her throat, and forcefully pulled out her entrails. She read from me in a book years ago that Egyptians did something similar when removing the brain through the nostrils during mummification, so I decided, I'll mummify them. She'll be proud that I was finally putting to use what she taught me. I'll put her insides in the backpacks of the kids at school - the looks on their faces would be priceless - and then I'd wrap her up in whatever's at hand. And I'll put her up on an altar, a commemorative shrine that people would worship and praise and fear. I will mummify them all, everyone else who ever lied to me or wronged me or left me and pretended to be someone they're not. I couldn't remember their names, but I could remember their faces. The fat kid who bragged about his puppies that I'll never get to have. I'll get him. The little girl with the pigtails who told me I was ugly. I'll get her too. The short one with buck teeth who pushed me down and called me a nerd. I'll be sure to keep him alive while I gut him.

I'm not crazy.

I'm not crazy, I'm not mad. I'm simply fed up. I'm fed up with you, too.Look at you. You're just like me. We're both inadequate, meaningless, worthless. We both have descended into a darkness that we can't even begin to comprehend. And I know what you think of me. You don't see me for who I am, the little girl who swore she was safe and then surrounded by monsters. You don't understand what I'm saying, do you? I knew it. I knew it. You think I'm crazy. That's what you think. You don't think that I can't come after you, what, just because you happen to be on the other side of the screen? Just because you're safe in your home or surrounded by family who will tell you you're safe? You think there is no danger in walking home alone tomorrow, or leaving your window open like that?

You don't think that I can be watching you, from over your shoulder, from a little ways beside you, as you are reading this very sentence? Don't you feel my eyes burning through the back of your skull yet?

I hope you're not afraid of death. I know for a fact that you are weary of the others, armed with alien extremities and scary masks and bloodied knives. I have none of the above, because I don't need them. I can work into your mind and plague your world with monsters. I can fill your nights with bad dreams and terror and dangers untold. When I'm through with you, you'll wish you were dead. Look around you. I'm here somewhere, maybe behind you, maybe dangling above you by my hair. I'm always going to be watching you now, because as far as I'm concerned, you've wronged me already. What's the matter? Isn't it so unfair?

So, friend, I'll ask you one more time. Do you think that that your safety is just a bedtime story?

...Best sleep with the light on, then.

You are not safe you are not safe you are not safe you are not safe you are not safe you are not safe you are not safe you are not safe you are not safe you are not safe you are not safe you are not safe so sorry you are not safe you are not safe you are not safe

FOR YOUR OWN GOOD