Møsquitos Die Hard

This is a journal of my fucked up life.

My name is Bernie.

I was born in a hospital, sometime after the 00’s.

The exact date I don’t remember.

Or rather, I couldn’t care less to try and remember.

When I was seven I had to go to school.

When my parents left me at the school, I felt abandoned.

For the first time in my life I had no one to take care of me.

I was all alone.

So I started crying.

And crying.

And crying.

Eventually someone helped me get to my class.

I sat down in the back of the class with soaking red eyes.

The kids were jumping around and wrestling each other like a bunch of goddamn monkeys.

I didn’t like any of them.

I didn’t think for even a second that I wanted to be friends with any of them.

So I just sat there, quietly in the back.

Thinking, why the hell would my parents bring me to this hell and leave me here?

Was all that love and affection just acting?

Did they secretly hate me all along?

Was I not a good enough kid?

Have I been bad?

Is this my punishment?

Are they even my real parents?

Honestly I wouldn’t mind having been homeschooled instead.

School never helped to come out of my shell anyway.

Never socialized.

Never made any friends.

Nothing good ever came out of school for me.

Not a single thing.

I already knew the alphabet thanks to kindergarten.

I liked kindergarten.

Everyone was nice.

Not at school.

Nobody was nice at school.

Teachers shouted at me for drawing sketches while they were teaching bullshit I wasn’t interested in learning.

Kids made fun of me all the time.

They stole my lunch money.

Sometimes they’d go through my bag and steal my stuff during recess.

And worst of all.

They drink water out of my bottle.

Those dirty little mouths touching the top of my water bottle.

Their disgusting saliva mixing itself with the water that was supposed to keep me from getting thirsty while I wasted six hours of my life getting tortured.

I never drank water in school again.

Damn little bastards.

Why couldn’t they bring their own fucking water bottles.

Why couldn’t they bring their money.

Their own stuff.

It wasn’t my fault they were fucking poor.

Not a single day went by without me thinking of brutally bashing their heads to the wall.

Beating them until they puked blood.

Kicking them in the stomach until they’d vomit.

All of them.

Every single one of them.

And the fucking teachers.

That was first grade for me.

Second grade, we moved.

The new school I went to was better.

The teacher was a very nice and sweet old lady.

We all liked her.

I made a friend.

I really liked him.

I’d always try to hangout with him.

But he got tired of me.

Said I was too much of a stickler.

That made me sad.

One day while I was sobbing my ass off in a corner a bunch of kids asked me why I was crying.

I explained.

One of them told me he was sorry to hear that.

“But hey, we’d love to be your friends!” He said.

It was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to me outside home.

From then on I became friends with that group of kids.

We would always play fun games at recess.

Not hurtful dangerous games the other damn animals played.

Fair, joyful games that didn’t involve jumping on each other and beating each other.

We would always help each other with homework and understanding the lessons better in class.

When we were all together no one bullied me.

I had so much fun during second grade.

Third grade, the teacher was a bitch, but as long as I was with my friends, I was happy as ever.

I’ll never forget their faces.

Their names.

Even last names.

They were the nicest kids I had ever met.

And the nicest kids I was ever going to meet.

At the beginning of fourth grade I was listed in a different class than all of my friends.

Not a single one of my friends was in the same class with me.

Not one.

I was seated next to an asshole who hated me for no reason at all.

He kept threatening to break my fingers.

I could only gather up and meet my friends during recess in fourth grade.

So I didn't like being in the class anymore.

I’d count minutes, waiting for recess to arrive.

It was the only thing I looked up to for the day.

My only hope.

But then we moved again.

I was barely through one third of fourth grade when we moved.

The new school was full of scum and only scum.

Not only did I not have recess with my friends to look forward to anymore, but I’d get constantly bullied and beaten up in recess as well.

It was a nightmare.

I was always a wimpy, thin, powerless, pathetic kid.

I could only imagine fighting back in scenarios in my mind.

I hated myself for it.

But this one time, I fought back.

There was this kid who always annoyed me for no reason.

He was as thin and powerless as I was.

Maybe even more.

So one time when I finally decided that I had enough of his harassments, I kicked him right in the nose, so hard that his nose started bleeding.

Lucky for me it didn’t break.

Otherwise I’d be in a hell of a trouble.

I still got scolded by my parents and teacher of course.

But the kid’s mother didn’t seem to care that much.

It felt good.

It felt great.

It felt amazing.

It felt… godly.

Tøny was born.