All My Own (Part 1)

There was a world inside of me that no one ever knew. That is why I had to do it. That is why I had to end my life.

I was counting the days until September. I was never sure why she had chosen September. Maybe it held some special significance to her, or maybe she simply liked its somber mood. Whatever the reason, though, that was when she would come. She had wanted to call me Robert; it was what she and my father had decided on. Robert. Robert was a name that suggested power and masculinity. I was called Charles. Charles was a name that implied books and wealth. I would have been better suited with Robert. Her name was Kathryn. She had not been adopted, so Kathryn was her true name, the name that she was intended to have. Kathryn was a name alluding to beauty and elegance. She was definitely a Kathryn. Kathryn was my birth mother. I had only found out about her five years ago, when I was six. In fact, it was that very day that I had found out I was adopted. I will never forget her tear-drenched face and quiet sobs as she held me for the first time. It was a magnificent day.

I whispered softly to myself that she would be there soon. She was rarely late, but when she was it made me worry. For all I knew she could be in danger, or worse, dead. I always feared things of that sort; it was my nature. It was not so much pessimism, as it was realism; it had been my experience that life did not have good endings. The only good in life, as I came to understand, was it’s simple truths. For instance my adoption. That one truth brought the only happiness into my life- my mother, Kathryn. When she found me, my life changed. I know that many do not believe one lives a real life at six, but I did. I remember the sadness, the emptiness, and the anger. That anger transformed into adoration the minute I met her. She was beautiful; she was an angel. She had come into my life to give it purpose. I immediately put everything into her; my very soul became her possession. She gave me something to love, something to believe in, and something to cherish and be my own. This gift was far greater than any I had or ever would receive.

I lived with a group of other kids, all parentless. While we had people that took care of us, they did not care about us. The only times I would speak about anything important was when she, my mother, was around. Unfortunately, those times, as I mentioned, were far and few between. I would pretend to talk to her sometimes, on my own. I would laugh and carry on as if she were there with me. I would cry and express my torment as if she were experiencing it with me. It was truly a grand relationship. When she did come it was usually only for a couple of days, never more than a week. We would go out for food, see shows, and sometimes she would even tell me about my father. “He was a strong man, a man of conviction.” She would speak of him softly and with great revere. I would listen intently, trying to picture the great man in my mind. He would jog over to me, and swing me over his shoulders. The laughter I would imagine was usually enough to bring me to tears, this was usually when my mother would stop recalling my father.

That particular day she was much later than she had ever been before. Small doubts suddenly transformed into great fears. Rain started to fall on the dry, cracked ground and I began to cry. It was not often that I would be found crying. The times I did cry were times when I thought about all I had and lost, or all I could lose, which was never very much. I dwelled greatly on the forgotten and the overlooked, this was the root of my unhappiness. I decided to lay down and attempt to nap, this way when I awoke, I had thought, she would have come. I laid my head down on the sofa I was sitting on and closed my eyes.

A guy