I am a beast of burden, since the day of my birth. I didn’t know how it happened, maybe it was fate, but I wasn’t given time to decide. At my birth blood poured from my eyes, my fingers, any whole it could. Every room I passed in the terminal ward the people grew instantly better.
As a child growing up, no-one was ever sick around me, except me. I bled cosntantly, less then that of my birth, but enough were I stayed in one room, so as not to mess up my mother house. I spent most of my time reading, all the books soaked with blood. It was a strange existence, but I managed.
I didn’t go to school except my senior year, when the sickness seemed to die down, and I stopped bleeding. At school, life sucked. People picked on me for knowing so much, preppy nerds even. I hadn’t grown that outter shell people use to defend themselves yet, being isolated as I was, but I soon grew a deep hatred.
One paticurally day, I was sitting in class, and the sickness staretd again. I began to pour blood from every pour, lid, bone, hair. Except my body began to wrtihe and I fell to the ground in pain. I was the beast of eveyone else’s woe’s, and I wasn’t going to take it. I lfted myself up, blood soaked my body and the floor. The looked at those who had hurt me, and the fell to the floor, in the same pain as I, and I looked to those who loved me , and yet they fell to. And I relized, I was life. Life affects more then just one person, but everyone. Pain to one is soon pain to many, and hate to one, soon turns to hate to many. I welcomed deaths hands, and laughed. Death is the only relief, and if we become consumed in the world around us, we die. Ironic isn’t it?