I’ve noticed a disturbing trend developing over the past few years. Tragic life stories. You must have seen them in bookshops, supermarkets, and pretty much anywhere that books are sold. They all have sepia covers, usually with a child crying on there, and names like Betrayal or Used.
The book that started it all was “A Child Called It”, a truly disturbing account of one man’s torture by his horrific parents and his struggle to regain a normal life. That book had two sequels and I recommend them to anyone interested in this sort of literature, and anyone who thinks that their childhood was bad. Fast forward a few years and it seems like everyone who has had any difficulty in growing up is writing their story in one of these tragic life books and it’s getting ridiculous. Yes, a lot of kids were, and in fact still are, mentally, physically and sexually abused by their parents. However a lot of these books seem to be using that as an excuse for them getting into drugs or prostitution later on, and not everyone who went through these things ends up that way. In fact some people have it much worse and don’t end up that way.
As you can probably tell, these things piss me off no end. To the point that I’ve written my own little tragic life story. This is entirely fiction, but don’t be surprised if it ends up in the tragic life section sometime soon as a “harrowing true story of a child betrayed.”
It started when I was six years old. I was a normal child, if a little naive. One day I was out shopping with my family and I decided to steal a chocolate bar. My so called father caught me and told me I was a bad boy. Can you imagine the humiliation of being told that in public? From then on the torture continued and it only got worse.
When I was ten years old I was happily playing in the living room with the cat. I was just about to cut it’s tail off with an electric carving knife that I’d snuck out of the kitchen. My mother walked in and took it off me, stifling my creativity. And the stupid bitch wonders why I became a heroin addict when I was older. It was all her fault!
Daddy once told me that Santa Claus brings lumps of coal to bad little boys and girls. He said that so that he could control me and stop me from cutting my baby sister’s hair completely off. What a monster!
Mummy told me that running with scissors is bad after I fell over and cut my arm. She blamed me! Can you believe that??? Blaming me for hurting myself. It was one of the few times that I managed to get revenge on my evil parents though as I started cutting myself to teach them a lesson. They’ll know it’s all their fault when they see the scars, not that they’ll care anyway.
I became a prostitute when I was sixteen, selling my flesh to strangers to feed my heroin addiction. Of course, I realise now that my family had been forcing me to prostitute myself for years. Can you believe that these creatures even made me bow my head in prayer at every meal? How hypocritical that evil people such as this should worship their false god and try to force these beliefs on their own children.
Wah wah wah! Everything bad that I’ve ever done is everyone else’s fault. I’ve had such a hard life. Feel sorry for me. Wah wah wah!
All Joking Aside
Thousands of children suffer in silence at the hands of their abusers every minute of every day. If you want to help them, buying these books wont make the slightest difference. Find out what your local nationwide child protection charity is and make a donation there, even if it’s just to volunteer some of your time. Please, help to give these children a voice before it’s too late.