He had nothing. A bed that was falling apart, and the odd shingle on the roof to prevent the rain from dripping. But, he was taken care of, his mother and father worked all day, every day at the factory. But times were hard. Hourly pay dropped and so did sales. People were scared, but of what he didn't know. But, of all in the town, he lived for the bitterness. All he knew was sorrow. And anger. He bullied, taunted, tease and hurt people. The town grew to fear him, a scowl his permanent expression. His mother and father often came home too tired to do much more than make a meager soup he refused to make for them, and fall into bed. They skirted the angry child who lay in the shadows each night, if he decided to come home. Now, looking from the inside in, one would see two severely depressed persons, and one unjustly angry child. Only, I knew the truth. I was that angry child. But it wasn't unjust. I didn’t know why my parents made me live in such squalor. I was their child. They hated me. They spent all their time at that stupid factory, “working”. But I knew they did it to avoid me. I was their mistake. They had had a happy life before me. I saw that in their eyes when they looked at me. But I was ok with that. In fact I  lived for it. It made me stronger. Someone had to be strong in this family. I was overjoyed when my mother died. My father followed not a year later. I think those years were the only time I was even close to being happy. I was finally free from their unjust hate.  I moved away from that ramshackle house. I was taken in by a organization that pitied me with three other so-called adults. I got a job, just as the sales and pay skyrocketed. I was forced to do this crap job for crap pay, and was expected to be ok with being worked ragged, tested and poked and prodded. I finally quit, throwing and screaming at the man in the big office upstairs. I left with the satisfaction of seeing glass shattered on the floor, papers ripped and thrown haplessly. Many others had found jobs, stealing, smuggling, selling stolen things. It sounded like just the kind of thing I could do. And do well. And I did, I ruled over these operations. I was the king of smuggling. Until I was caught. I had done some pretty bad things in my life, and I grinned at the police officers, thinking about them reading my rap sheet in court. I could see it now. The officer or whoever was reading it, would come up empty handed. The thought of them looking foolish had me grinning again.  They wouldn’t convict me. They couldn’t. It was all speculation. This was the first and only time I had been caught. The court session ended quickly, me having to pay a fine, which I knew I never would. Not two weeks later, I was set up. Caught, and framed for murder. I had been convicted, and I had two options, plead innocent, and serve life without parole. Or, I could plead guilty, pleading death row. I think we can all tell what I chose, since here I am to tell this story. My life had always been dark, and my heart followed it.He had nothing. A bed that was falling apart, and the odd shingle on the roof to prevent the rain from dripping. But, he was taken care of, his mother and father worked all day, every day at the factory. But times were hard. Hourly pay dropped and so did sales. People were scared, but of what he didn't know. But, of all in the town, he lived for the bitterness. All he knew was sorrow. And anger. He bullied, taunted, tease and hurt people. The town grew to fear him, a scowl his permanent expression. His mother and father often came home too tired to do much more than make a meager soup he refused to make for them, and fall into bed. They skirted the angry child who lay in the shadows each night, if he decided to come home. Now, looking from the inside in, one would see two severely depressed persons, and one unjustly angry child. Only, I knew the truth. I was that angry child. But it wasn't unjust. I didn’t know why my parents made me live in such squalor. I was their child. They hated me. They spent all their time at that stupid factory, “working”. But I knew they did it to avoid me. I was their mistake. They had had a happy life before me. I saw that in their eyes when they looked at me. But I was ok with that. In fact I  lived for it. It made me stronger. Someone had to be strong in this family. I was overjoyed when my mother died. My father followed not a year later. I think those years were the only time I was even close to being happy. I was finally free from their unjust hate.  I moved away from that ramshackle house. I was taken in by a organization that pitied me with three other so-called adults. I got a job, just as the sales and pay skyrocketed. I was forced to do this crap job for crap pay, and was expected to be ok with being worked ragged, tested and poked and prodded. I finally quit, throwing and screaming at the man in the big office upstairs. I left with the satisfaction of seeing glass shattered on the floor, papers ripped and thrown haplessly. Many others had found jobs, stealing, smuggling, selling stolen things. It sounded like just the kind of thing I could do. And do well. And I did, I ruled over these operations. I was the king of smuggling. Until I was caught. I had done some pretty bad things in my life, and I grinned at the police officers, thinking about them reading my rap sheet in court. I could see it now. The officer or whoever was reading it, would come up empty handed. The thought of them looking foolish had me grinning again.  They wouldn’t convict me. They couldn’t. It was all speculation. This was the first and only time I had been caught. The court session ended quickly, me having to pay a fine, which I knew I never would. Not two weeks later, I was set up. Caught, and framed for murder. I had been convicted, and I had two options, plead innocent, and serve life without parole. Or, I could plead guilty, pleading death row. I think we can all tell what I chose, since here I am to tell this story. My life had always been dark, and my heart followed it.