A long journey

When I was younger, I used to hate darkness. Each time the dark shrouded the world, the fear of being abused, beaten, starving, and sometimes—watching my father's ruthless wolf hunting those animals like they meant nothing to the world—came crawling in.

The more I grew up, the better I realized—not only those innocent pets but even my life didn’t matter.

I was different. I had my mother’s eyes, but I wasn’t like her at all. She was a woman who would charm men to earn money. While my father would drink all day long, and at night, he would go to my mom, torture her, and lock me inside a small closet.

I was different. My eyes were different, and my hair... they were different too. Different from my mother’s as well.

And once I grew up, I knew that all I had was my appearance—different from the people around me. No one had those eyes—silver with a drop of blue in the center. Long bluish-silver hair that I started dyeing when I was six.

I was bullied constantly. No CPS, no cops could help,