Entry Sixteen
Home Again, Home Again, Jiggity-Jig

     I just remembered something stupid today, something that happened a long time ago. I thought I'd share it with you, Blue Book, because why not? We're all prisoners here. I'll make you suffer awhile longer.
    That being said, I'll tell you a little story about a boy named Alexander.
    Home again, home again, jiggity-jig. There's screaming all down the stairwell, which means Mother and Father are at each other's throats again. Little Alexander clutches the edges of his blanket tightly, hoping silently that he could do so by mean of protecting himself. He knows better, of course, because even while he is beneath those warm, secure sheets, he can feel the fist of his older brother pound on him. It hurts, but it always could've been more painful. His brother is stronger, you see. The blankets rip from Alexander's head and to the floor. Alexander wants it back. He reaches for it but felt it cut off by the pain in his wrist. From the dark, someone grabs him, drags him, and pulls him out of bed. With good reason, Alexander supposes, because he can't sleep and when boys don't sleep then they get punished. Marcus always told Alexander this. Marcus tells Alexander a lot of things. He tells Alexander that there were monsters under his pillow, whispering in his ear at night. He tells his brother that that was why Alexander does stupid things. When the monster keeps talking, it keeps Alexander from falling asleep.
    The white rabbit on the wall with the one short paw and one long paw showed that it was one in the morning. Ungodly.
    Mother and Father scream. Mother leaves. The next morning....
    God. No. No.... Won't think about it. Won't think about it. Can't think about it. They're bad things to think about and it's bad because people will know they'll know I don't know how but they'll just KNOW.
    The monster the monster he's under my pillow now and he can't sleep he won't sleep never sleeps.

You'd think by now that I'd have learned my lesson; that I'd be used to the concept of death. I'm not. You never, ever get used to it unless if you happen to be built that way. I'm not. Some people can block it out easier, numb the pain, but that's it. That's the most you can do. I tried everything to get myself over it, and I'm still drowning. But that's all fine and dandy. Just because a guy has been around death a lot, it's supposed to mean we're OK with it. Right?
    My mother suffocated painfully in her final moments, alone. And my father hung himself shortly after. When I was a kid, I used to think they got along, loved each other, but now I'm inclined to believe that they hated one another, despised one another, and it was that hate that brought on the death of one another. Maybe Father wanted Mother dead. He was a former military man; he'd been around death plenty. He used to say he hated it. Never got used to it. So you see what I mean?
    He told me once how he hated me, his son, for looking too much like his mother.
    Then he threw me down a flight of stairs, cracked my skull open. Blood everywhere. Fragments of my cranium scattered across the hardwood floor. My brothers picked up the pieces later and hid them in the labyrinth. I wonder if I dig them up sometime, they'll still be there.
    I should've felt numb when my brother called me years later, telling me of Father's suicide, but all that's left is emptiness. I'm hollow, and I try to hide it with a super burst of overwhelming emotion.
    Shut up, Alex.
    OK.
    The bottom of the stairs had been very slippery then. I noticed this as blood came gushing from my nose, my brain, and my final thought?
Well. This sucks.
    So enough of that. It's all stupid, self-pitying bullshit without the pity. I don't know why but I just felt I had to get it off my chest and written down somewhere, anywhere, but I don't need your sympathy, motherfucker. Just go away. Stop reading this.
Doc, can you even read my writing? It's starting to go off the page.
    O. What the fuck am I saying? 

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