Five days. That's how long it's been since I've eaten. It's not like mother has been starving me, though she has before, I just haven't felt hungry. So I haven't eaten.

This realization almost comes as a surprise to me one night. I stare at the ceiling with my hand resting on my emaciated stomach. If I move my thumb up, I can feel the bottom of my ribs jutting out.

"What is that hideous thing?" she asked after glancing over the paper for a second and then marching out of the room. "You're never going to get anywhere in life like that." I was six. I had just shown her a picture I drew of our baby mule, Melvin.

My mother. I know she's never liked me; I've never been her favorite, no matter how hard I'd try. Not even now. I want to hate her for it, for not loving me, but I just can't. I just want her to accept me.

A loud crash broke the room. I stood, horrified, staring at the broken vase. It had been her favorite. I was only trying to play, it was an honest mistake. The rest of the memory is a bit hazy, pushed down by my consciousness. But no matter how hard I try, I still shudder when the wind slams hard against the house during stormy nights, remembering the cold that gripped me that night. And the blood from my broken nose.

That was one of the times she starved me. For two weeks I was forced to sit at the table and watch my brothers wolf down delectable meals, and got sent to bed with an empty stomach. That was when I was five. I'm pretty sure the only way I survived was sneaking carrots that were for Melvin out of the barn.

The water of the pond was glistening in the warm afternoon sun. He had told me we were out here so he could teach me something. And he did. He gave me his guitar, and showed me how to play Twinkle, Twinkle. He taught me about notes and chords, and how to make them sound good together. This was my sole present for my seventh birthday.

My dad… two months before he left. He wasn't usually around much anyways because of my mother, but when he was gone for good, my life crumbled before me. He was the only one who believed in me, who ever told me he loved me.

I have to tell myself to stop thinking. The cold draft in my room makes it hard to sleep as it is, without my pillow being damp and soggy. I sniffle. What's the use? I'm not going to sleep anyways. My blank eyes are on the ceiling, though what I'm actually seeing I'm unsure.

Sometimes I wonder if I should just kill myself. It would make mother happier, having one less burden. Probably the rest of my family, too. And who would it hurt? No one but me. But at least I'd be away from this place, this life. I wouldn't be so pained by disappointing everyone, screwing up all the time. There's no place important for me, and I don't deserve one.

But that's just it. I don't deserve to be relieved of my pain, because it's my penance for being born in the first place.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Lorax or the Once-ler

So this takes place when he's around 13. I know it's a bit choppy, but it's hard to concentrate on keeping a smooth prose when you're just getting more and more depressed as you write ^^;