Dear Diarrhea

Today I had a talk with my mother. She wanted to know why I sent that boy, Trevor, to the hospital. My reply was the same as it has been every time I did something to someone.

" It was his own damned fault, mom, It was!" 

"You shouldn't hit anyone Lewis, no matter what he said or did," She said with a soft yet still lecturing voice. I hated that voice it always made me feel guilty.

Then I got the usual tale about how nice I were when I were younger, and how I had always behaved nicely towards other people. Again, she had one of her flashbacks back to one of the parents meeting at school when I were about twelve years old. Back then, when the teachers had praised me and I were able to endure a full lesson without splitting the classroom apart. Well, a lot of shit can happen in just three years, diary. My mother obviously feels that she's to blame for my behaviour, her tears says it all; guilt. Well, she's not. It's the fucking retards who keep bullying me, just to see if I'll freak out. It's their freaking fault! And the headaches of course. It has worsened lately. When It comes I can only lie in my bed with the curtains drawn and the lights out. The doctors think it's something called "Migraine".  I think they're full of shit. They can call it whatever they want but all I know is that when the throbbing starts, every little tiny noise sounds like an explosion inside a giant hangar. It hurts so bad.

Tomorrow I'm going to the pharmacy to pick up these pills to numb this blasted headache. It's their answer to everything isn't it? Pills. If you have a headache you take a pill, if you don't act like everybody else you need to take a pill or go to Dr. Snail and let him tell you why you're fucked up. How can he know anything about me anyway, my mind is not written into one of his clever books. So what? I'm going to eat pills and chit chat with Dr. Snail for the rest of my life? Screw this, diary, it is they who're messed up, not me. Here, Have another pill, Bill.

Lewis Hempton