• Hrodwulf is my name, although you probably never heard of me, don't forget it. It's rather a peeve of mine. Having a family of drunkards that can't even remember that they have ten fingers let alone the name of their son. Well, maybe NINE fingers… They were robbers too, my father lost a finger in his latest heist. He tried to teach me the trade of drug dealing and stealing things that you don't have or need from others that do have them, basically he stole everything because even the ground that we stood on was too rich for us. My family is poor and utterly immoral. "Scum" is what you're thinking. Come on be honest. They were scum. Crooks. Conmen and women. Drunkards. Low lives that don't deserve to breathe the air they breathe; don't deserve to live the life they live no matter how despicable it is. Only I was different. I have a life that can be valued. Life is too precious to waste on scum, you know. At least that's what I think. I hope you think the same way, if not then you must pity the scum. I do not pity them, not by far. Or, you could BE the scum. You could be aiding to the problems in our society. If that is the case, I will get you.

    One reason why the life of thievery never stuck… I am blind. I was not always trapped in this pitch-black, rotten and lonely hell. I can't even see shapes or outlines like few of the lucky people can. And guess what? I owe that to my family. My father took me on a heist to give me a taste of crime, and it went terribly wrong, resulting in my current blindness. That is another reason why I hate scum. My condition was entirely their fault. Of course, my sight may have been just a small price to pay to use my otherworldly powers. Divine if I say so myself. The power to be able to stop evil before it spreads throughout the world. Heard of me now?

    I realize that I speak highly opinionated and I express my beliefs as if they were law, a general truth. I hope, and I myself, think I am perfectly right to have my own biased opinion and treat it as a fact. It is easy for me, but what about you? Are you already this easily convinced by similar experiences and are of the gullible sort and take my side? Or are you a complicated person, one that believes everyone has a good and bad side; one that wants both sides to a story? One that would like to analyze and go by "morals" or whatever cover-up rules you stubborn mules made up to disguise your so-called "empathy."
    Well to all you mules out there, here is where you get your stupid proof. Here is my life in a nutshell. Just for you. Only. For. You.

    I was born and immediately was hated. My parents constantly rambling on about how I was the biggest mistake they have ever made. It wasn't until one beating, one out of many that I will never forget; neither would my parents. Before my father was done beating me, one of his many routines after getting drunk, I snatched the belt from him and whipped him across the face. If he hadn't been so slobbering drunk, I would have been dead. I took the opportunity to run scared for my life. I survived for two days before coming back, which is a remarkable feat for a toddler around three. My parents then thought I was somewhat useful if I could survive like that.

    They left me alone for a few years, except for the verbal abuse. Until eventually at the fragile age of five my father decided to put my many "talents" to use. The day before the incident he said it was something along the lines of "bring your child to work day." That night I saw a murder. Not witnessed, but watched one. In my dreams. I did not sleep much at all that night.
    In the morning I was rushed and fully dressed before the break of dawn. My father shoved me in the back of the car.

    I noticed that we parked on the stretch of road that was ingeniously hidden by bushes. We snuck in the house via window. Once inside my father took out various sacks and commanded me to stuff them with valuable trinkets. He was not aware that the man we "robbed" from was watching TV. I walked into the room where the owner sat and watched TV, what I saw shocked me. I saw a video of my dream on the news. Every detail was the same as what I dreamt. The name. The location. Everything. I gasped and dropped the bag.

    That brought the owner to attention. He flew out of his chair, grabbing the fork that lay on his tray from the night before. From the look in his eyes I could tell he was not all the way there, somewhat crazy.

    He screamed some incoherent words and curses at me. I was terrified and frozen to the spot. I didn't know the man was crazy enough to slash at me with the fork. Two diagonal slashes. One across each eye. Unbeknownst to me, that crazy man rushing at me with a fork would be the last thing I would see. I remember hitting the ground and hearing shouts. I forced myself up and I tried to run out of the house. I stumbled down the stairs when all of a sudden I was hoisted up by my father who was cursing at me. He threw me in the car along with a couple half-filled sacks. My eyes amazingly healed up to where I only have two ugly scars across them, or so I was told. I guess my parents called in a friend who had a mediocre career as a medical practitioner to fix me up so child services would not investigate.

    For most of my years I was sitting in bed being blamed for the robbery gone wrong. Food being brought to me. Nothing more than food. I found my own entertainment. I couldn't read, still can't read very well. I wasted away 4 years of my life. I can barely remember them. The only day I remember is that fateful day that my parents carted me off to an orphanage.

    I am currently on that train now. At times I was so bored I counted the click and clacks that wheels of the train made when gliding over the tracks. Upon reaching 1000 I gave up. I knew I faced forward, straight and forward. Since I lost one of my senses, the others greatly improved. I heard an irregular breathing pattern, almost felt the change in temperature when the breath reached my skin. Due to many years of practice, I could tell there was a young girl sitting across from me; she was nervous and slightly remorseful. A feeling of uneasiness hit me. She was staring at me. It was not just my heightened senses, everyone can sense when you are being stared at. It sent a shiver up my spine. I tried to keep a straight face, realizing that I have probably been staring right at her the whole trip.

    "Why are you staring at me?!" Her squeaky voice rang out and almost echoed around the empty car. I was no expert on women, but I could tell she was "slightly" perturbed.