Fizick

I wasn't willingly born into this world. Rather, my existence is the culmination of several great mistakes on the part of my parents. Of course, who am I to speculate on what was going through their heads the day they decided my life wasn't worth the price they paid for it. I was hardly two years old at the time they left me to die in the stark-white snow of the alleys of Brooklyn, as unaware as I am today about the ongoings of this screwed up society we live in. Since then I've been backstabbed and left for dead more times than I can remember. Yet I've continued to subsist. Last I checked, the world couldn't even give two shits about my well-being, so tell me, why the hell should I sell my soul to return back to it. It's plain and obvious that someone like me, a goddamn vagrant living in a broken-down and disgusting box of cardboard on the side of busy road, isn't worth saving. As you can see, throughout most of my life, from the time I was born in fact, this fucked up world has shoved a Glock up my mouth and just dared me to pull the trigger. I've been chewed up, spit out, and repeatedly beaten down without even the slightest bit of remorse. Every bone in my body has been rejected by this world, which, looking back, was probably what made me so accepting of THEIR world. This story, quite contrary to its beginnings that annoyingly wallow in despair and self-pity (in my defense, the alcohol I was drinking while writing this was waaaaay to strong for a simple cure to writer's block), isn't simply a relic used to dramatize my past. It's my way to somehow find peace, to stave off the demons that have plagued me ever since I accepted that dumbass Adrian's invitation into the secret society that would become my home, solace, and truthfully, my first family. The fantastical world slated directly parallel to the dreary, monotonous existence that marked the abode of the weak and petty I had previously resided in. A place that while completely separate, remained intertwined with its mirror. It's name? Fizick.