Green-eyed Beast
It was New Years eve of 2015. I remember waking up from a nightmare, and found my adoptive mother looking at me. She smiled and I was still not comfortable with the new enviroment, and I covered my self more with the bed covers. I saw her blonde hair and peircing green eyes, with a suite that had wine stains. She had been somewhere. "Dinners in the fridge if your hungry. Dont answer the door unless its me," Her and my "Father" trotted off, slamming the door, or so I could hear, and drove off. I slowly uncovered myself from the blankets. I could feel this itching urge to fix my bed, since the sides where completely uneven. I messed it up again, so I kept making sure both sides were even.
After negotiating wuth my bed, I went on a rampage with the itching urge to redo everything I had just done, making it perfect. I hated myself. I wanted to stop doing these things but the urge was unbearable and hurt when I didn't do it. To avoid this, I would just stay in bed all day. School was starting soon and I couldn't stand to think about how strage people would think I was when I felt these itching urges for perfection.
I would get really mad, upset almost, and would grit my teeth everytime the urge came back. I walked into the restroom and looked at myself in the mirror. I hated myself so much. Why did God make me like this? I look hidious! I grabbed scissors, without thinking, almost as If I thought this was a dream. It wasn't. I chopped all my hair off in self pity. My "parents" wouldn't care. I looked in the mirror, and stared for a long time. I felt tears swell up. Soon, I was crying. I could feel myself losing to this stupid disorder, and I couldn't win even if I tried. I stopped. I heard knocking. My parents would just say, "Don't amswer it" but Im stronger than them. I felt the urge to cut my hair more because it was uneven, and I felt an itch. But I fought it, the itch in my head was unbearable but I kept to myself.
I found a shotgun my parents closet. I knew how to operate these. THEY tought me. I walked up to the door and sat by it, waiting for another knock. I was immature, so I didn't think about turning the lights off or acting like I wasn't home. The Russian in me was ready to fight, I guess. I didn't hear another knock. I was fearless. I knocked open the door and pointed my gun outside. Nothing. I turned around, not hearing anything else. Just as I turned, I heard a knock again. "Go away!" I was so stupid. I picked up my gun and opened the door again. I found a man, around 6'4 staring down at me, he grabbed me, and I recognized him immediantly. "No! Let me go!" No! I couldn't go back! I just cant! I fought him, with all my might. My shotgun fell from my hand. I screamed and cried.
I don't want to be raised to be some murderer. Not again.
