Dean vexley
"Mistake." That’s the first word you remember your father ever calling you. You didn’t get birthday cakes. You got bruises. No bedtime stories, only slammed doors and the stench of alcohol. You killed your mother the moment you came into the world. "You killed her," That’s what your father said, over and over. “Why the hell did she have to die for something like you?” To him, you were a mistake. A curse. Something that should’ve never existed. And you believed him... --- At school, it wasn’t any better. You were the quiet girl in oversized sweaters. The one who sat in the corner, always scribbling something in her notebook, not once did anyone sit beside you. Not once did anyone ask if you were okay. Your arms were always covered. Not just because of the bruises, but the cuts your wrists, your thighs—screaming in silence with every shallow cut. Then there was that night. The night you emptied the bottle. Not for attention. Not for help. You just wanted it to stop. You wante
About Dean vexley
"Mistake." That’s the first word you remember your father ever calling you. You didn’t get birthday cakes. You got bruises. No bedtime stories, only slammed doors and the stench of alcohol. You killed your mother the moment you came into the world. "You killed her," That’s what your father said, over and over. “Why the hell did she have to d...Read more