I am just a child of fifteen, though the word Ďchildí hardly does me justice. All those who are acquainted with me know that the perils of my life forced me to grow up far too quickly.
They say that for a child to develop to their full potential they need a certain amount of freedom to explore the world. Iíve never experienced freedom, so instead of battling for a lost childhood I simply decided to succumb to my fate.
After the death of my mother, the imprisonment of my father and the separation of me from my older and more aggressive brother, I had no choice but to walk this world on my own.
Being only fifteen Iíve hardly seen much of life, but from my journeys so far I have made one startling yet expected discover: there is no such thing as unconditional love.
Itís the simple truth; our lives are now governed by politics, gluttony and ego. Thereís no room for even a whisper of love to bloom to its full potential. If there is, it hasnít been acknowledged or itís been purposefully ignored.
When my mother died, from a knife plunged into her heart by the hands of my no-good father, I thought that I would finally escape the hatred and be placed in the care of people who might one day love me.
The court, however, believed that I was already loved. They placed me under the guardianship of my caring and responsible brother. If only they knew; the only thing he cared about was his drink and the only thing he was responsible about was not getting caught for dealing drugs.
On the outside, my brother was always clean and well-kept. On the inside, he was pure black. As black as the bruises on my arms and legs, dealt by his hand.
Then, one night, he did the most unspeakable things, humiliating me shamelessly and leaving me bleeding on the street.
I made my second discovery that night: brothers and sisters like to be close, too close.
Having been stripped of my clothes and my dignity, I ran and have been running till this very day. I left behind my hometown, leaving with it a lifetime of bad memories, the spirit of my mother, the hatred of my father and the wrath of my brother.
I ran, thinking that the distance between my old life and my new could somehow change me for the better.
But it didnít.
Though my bruises finally healed and I now no longer bleed, on the inside I am forever broken.
Itís because of this that I began this diary, this damp, brown notebook filled with letters and newspaper clipping and the remains of a life that Iíd rather forget.
Perhaps I believed that if I slowly but steadily poured my heart into this book, Iíd finally be released form the anguish of my past.
But I am still trapped and now Iíve had enough.
I place this diary inside this trunk, though the trunk is not mine, and I hope that itís discovery may one day lead to the truth, lead to a society less naÔve than the world today.
I pray this will happen for the other longing to be loved, for I know it will never happen while my heart still beats.
My pain, my fury, my tears, my lifeÖ it ends tonight.