I thought about you today for the first time in a long while. I guess because it’s your birthday, and probably the last. So many years have passed, but the scars remain, literally and figuratively. Nine years old, the only place to sleep was a dirty office floor in the south Georgian junkyard, abandoned and bloody.
It wasn’t your fists or feet, but I was there because of you. Though many men have tried to hurt me in my life, your deeds were the worst. For a year the beatings never stopped. Day after day I wished to leave this world to the solitude of the abyss; nothingness, non-existence seemed the only way out. Yet, I survived, clawed my way out, burned every bridge I crossed so that you could not follow. Somehow a spec, your stain lingers in my mind, and it’s only knowing that it exists that I feel a hint of emotion toward you. Sis called yesterday to tell me that you’re dying. I guess I should be thankful for the lessons you taught me. Years forged in blood made me stronger than most men. Tough enough to write this brief letter, say happy birthday and goodbye.
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