It's the little things. Sitting here on the floor of my bedroom, my thoughts are framed by creme colored walls and posters of Korn, Christ, and Dali. They're accompanied by the loud voice of Fred Durst screaming obsanities through twelve inch speakers. I wish I could do that. I wish I could get up on stage and scream my frustrations out to the mob. Never was very social though, so I'll just let my pen scream for me.

 I remember a time when I was afraid to breath. If I did maybe God would punish me for stealing his air. No, I was afraid to breath because I might attract ‘his' attention again. My father, more of a sperm doner since he didn't spend much time ‘fathering'. The abuse was easy to take. Seven year olds have quick healing and as long as he hit me, that means he wasn't hitting my little brothers. After a while it didn't hurt anymore. When we left him, it was like leaving a stranger. We didn't know him, my brothers and I, and I didn't care to. That didn't kill me. I'm still here.

 God has a way of looking down at you, assessing your situation and then yelling, "She can handle more!" The more you complain the more life throws at you. I learned a long time ago to keep my mouth shut. Surprise surprise, God still see's me. It's hard to hide from an omnipotent entity, believe me I know. I've tried. Get rid of one challenge and on to the next. That's always the way it goes. Life doesn't pull her punches.

 Have you ever spent all day knowing that whoever you ran into was going to make you feel like shit? Try living with your reletives. Not immidiate family, we moved in with our aunt and uncle and cousins. I love my cousins. I used to sing them to sleep when they had nightmares, or stay up late when the grownups couldn't hear us. . . playing soldier. Still, if you live in someone elses house, your never really home. All of my cousins took pride in telling me that. New school, new state, no friends, no home, God has a funny sence of humor. I'll bet he's laughing real hard now. Well guess what! I'm still here!

 Maybe I should stop thinking that, every time I do God looks down and says, "Oh really? I can fix that." I guess shutting my mouth isn't as effective as I thought. But it wasn't any of those memories that hurt. No, it's the little things.

 A new life, a new town, no friends, our own home. At least life was improving. New dad, now that was a surprise! Mom loves keeping us on our toes. But hey, this one is nice. He doesn't hit us, he yells though, when we do something wrong. I guess the first one trained me well, it took me six years to stop cringing or running when he yelled. I always expected him to hit us. I was waiting for it. Now I know he won't abuse us. I can face him nose to nose and argue or just shoot silly comments into his yelling. That really ticks him off, then he leaves the room, no more yelling. But it's the little things. . .

 Mom got pregnant, I got twin sisters, God? Have you given up on pushing me down? He hadn't. I'm holding their picture. They were so innocent, they didn't know that God's a sadistic fucker out to destroy my mind. Why did he have to use them? They were just babies!  Damn it God why do they have to go live with you?! We still needed them! You have billions of souls why did you need theirs?!! What the fuck do you want with me?!

 When will I learn that yelling at God only gets a person pain? I feel like I'm not in control of who I am any more. I can't control my life, I couldn't save the twins, I couldn't stop our first father from hiting us, I can't control anything!

 The knife is a familiar weight in my hands. An antique, my favorite out of all of my weapons. It's a crisp silver blade that forms a triangle whose base is an ivory handle. When I grip the cool ivory I'm in control. Finally there's one thing that god can't take away. I own my pain.

 The feel of razor sharp silver bitting into my palm, I control that. The blood dripping onto the pages of my journal, I control that. The biting pain that flashes through me and sparks in my vision, I control that. This is my pain. God can't twist it or steal it, or taint it. I control this. Finally I feel like my life is mine. Because my pain is mine. My knife is mine. My blood is mine.

 Korn has replaced Durst on the radio. Belting out gutteral phrases in the middle of ‘Freak on a Leash'. I know the feeling. Does he feel lost too? Is God punishing him too? God's a sadistic bastard isn't he.

 More pain, more cuts, blood running over my face. I can taste my own blood in my mouth; So good. I suckle at my blade, it cuts my tongue open but I don't care. At least it's my will. Yeah, my will be done. I can feel laughter bubbling up in me at that. I look at myself in the mirror. Cut's and scars cover my naked body, my face. They're a testimony that I control this. I love each one. My hair is choped off at odd angles and spikes up everywhere. I did that. I like it. I made it.  I control it.

 The little things are still there though. They're the disappointed looks my father or mother give me when I can't do something they say I should. It's the need for a hug with no one to offer me their arms. The little things are my brother's spitefull words when I try to help him, or my Grandma's tears when she desides no one is paying enough attention to her. The little things are the hopes that die each day and the dreams I watch my parents dream, they won't come true. God wont let them. Because I want those dreams too, and God hates me.

 My knife touches my wrist. I can control this. I can choose when and how. I won't let God win. A smooth cut up the vien, my arm is split from wrist to elbow. I quickly do the same to the other wrist before my fingers go numb. I can see my life slipping out of me, onto the creme colored carpet. Shit, I should have put something under me, mom will never get that stain out. Everything is blurry, I feel so cold. I listen to the music. My life's closing hymn is by Nine Inch Nails. That's oddly fitting. My vision is gone now, not much time left. Take notes God. It's the little things that kill.

~Owari~