I have a reason. A reason to be quiet, and it's not because of a commitment. It's because of my past. I want to share it with you, however painful, I want to, so you don't think I have no reason for anything.

When I was five, I was asleep one night. My sister wasn't alive yet. I was
asleep until a knock on the door woke me up. I disregarded it, and nearly drifted off to sleep again when I heard a loud sound. I groggily got up, and looked to the door. A man in all black had kicked our door in. I didn't know what to do, so I just watched. My parents got up from their bedroom downstairs, and saw him. The man said something, something I couldn't hear. The blood drained from my parents' faces, and they shook their heads. He kept yelling and they kept shaking their heads and my mom started crying. He wanted to go upstairs, but my mother stopped him. He pushed her away, and my dad punched him. He got a knife. Small, but very sharp, and stabbed my father in the shoulder three times, until he begged the man to stop. My mother put herself in between the two men, and then it happened. The man had a pistol. He fired it at my mom, and at first she only looked down in disbelief. Her grey robe, now red. My dad crude out- and was shot in the leg, chest, and then arm. The man started going upstairs, and I bolted out the window onto our flat roof, and lied flat. He looked around. He looked everywhere. He started cursing, banging on things, until he heard a whimper. He approached the window, and tore me from the shingles. I ran, and fell down the stairs. He got his knife, and he cut my skinny back from my shoulder to right above my hips, and I was lying right next to my dying parents, also bleeding to death. They kept murmuring 'why' 'why' 'why'. I crude to myself, and blacked out. A while later, I woke up in a hospital. I know now, that my parents dyed because of me. The man was looking for me. My now dead parents found me on the side of a road when I was three months. No one has ever wanted me. Not my parents. Not these people who found me- no one.
When I was better, and by that I mean my back was healed, I was given

to my grandparents. They knew it was my fault. Every night for five years, they abused me mercilessly. They'd tie me up, get a wrench, and hit me. Over. And over. And then they'd scream at me and lock my up and feed me nothing. I got water from a leak in the basement where they locked me up. I got food from anything I could find. When I was fourteen, the cops found out. I was given to three more abusive families. By the time I was fourteen, I had had four abusive families, been beat up daily by bullies, and my ribs and spine were visible through my shirt, although even now I eat nearly nothing. My last family adopted me because they apparently wanted me. I have a sister named olive now. A suicidal uncle and bankrupt parents. A now dead drug addict of a grandfather. I recently didn't talk for nine months. I want to fly jets so badly. So badly. But I'm color blind. I CANT DO THE ONE THING ID EVER LOVE! This is why I am depressed. Silent. Why I don't look like my "family". Why I hate every one except olive. She is the best little sister in the world. She is seven, and she wants be a Beauty Queen.
I told you my story. I'm crying now, I'm dying inside as always.

~Dwane.