Darren Deathkin//d2//finished

Fc : Gerard Way
Name: Darren Deathkin
Age: 18
District:2



The only things that matter in life are love, and death. And one of those things has been following me. Wherever I go, death and destruction follows. And it's quite honestly, a living hell. My life isn't some kind of, I don't know, pretty narrative. It's not a love story. If anything, my life is a cautionary tale. A warning for youngsters to not run too fast or, murder their siblings. Because here's what I do, okay:I make bad decisions.

Sometimes it feels like my every step is a step into darkness. Not dark as in," uncharted and full of possibilities and fuckin' sparkles", but dark as in: "this was fucking dumb why would you do this you've ruined your life". Call me what you want: "clumsy", "accident prone", "an idiot". It's all true.

Sometimes it feels like my every breath is lined with smoke and decay. I'm still wondering why I'm not dead. Why I haven't been reaped yet. Is it the universe, trying to prolong my suffering? Probably. The universe is a piece of shit, if you ask me.

Anyways, everyone I love is dead. Except for my cat, Action. My mom died when I was fifteen, from cancer. My dad is still alive but, he's not the same. Ever since my mom died, he's been... difficult. My father tried to drown his grief in cheap liquor. Which might have been all fine and dandy if he weren't such a stereotypical mean drunk. I've got bruises everywhere from where that man's beaten me. Honestly though, I don't really try to protect myself from his beatings. Not only do I feel that I deserve these beatings, but I also feel that I cannot protect myself against this man without injuring the man he used to be.

The funny thing about this though, depending on how morbid you are, I guess, is that the worst thing I've ever actually done, is give in to peer pressure at eleven years old. A friend that I'd had then convinced me to smoke a cigarette . It'd help with my anxiety, he'd said. Next thing I know, I'm smoking half a pack a day, almost every day. I'd found a hidey hole near my moms garden to smoke and throw cigarettes in without anyone noticing. Little did I know, my fucking mom was on a gardening high a three years and I didn't know, so come my fifteenth birthday, I find out she'd gotten lung cancer from my secondhand smoke.

The only reason I didn't fucking kill myself after she died, was because of Action. My mother had brought him as a kitten to me right before she was diagnosed. As a coping mechanism, I would play with the cat instead of think of my mom. Soon, that furry mother fucker became my only friend. Soon, that scruffy bitch would be my only source of affection. I only one I could be sure I loved. On the worst of days, knowing that Action would die from neglect without me, that my father would just let him starve, is the only thing that keeps me going. The only thing that keeps me from ending it all.

And sometimes, when I couldn't even look at myself in the mirror, couldn't bare to witness the monster that caused me to destroy, to cause my mother so much fucking agony, I'd dye my hair. So I could almost look at someone else. It's something I still do, from time to time. My favorite colors thus far have been red and blue. My natural hair is black and I like for it to fall in my face. It's another way to hide from myself. And it makes me feel mysterious. My weight has fluctuated a lot, too. Depression medication will do that to you. Not that I care.

It's hard for me to care about most things. It's actually pretty hard for me to give a shit about most other people's feelings and problems. Unless I really really care about them, like my family. I also love animals. More than people usually. A lot of people my age don't like me because they think I'm a loner freak. They don't like that I keep to myself and wear eyeliner sometimes. Personally, I think that those are stupid reasons to harm te someone but being from district two means that most people I encounter are going to be assholes. Another casualty The people that aren't assholes will talk to me sometimes. But I usually scare them away with my social idiocy and accidental brashness. Some people say that I'm overly sassy too but, they're full of shit, I'm chill.

If I were to be reaped, I'm not sure how I'd feel. Maybe relief? I wouldn't be making the conscious decision to stop breathing. I'd be able to escape my dad. Maybe I'd even try to win. I've got a few career skills that I picked on the few occasions I bothered to go to training. And I've got a lot of tolerance for emotional and physical pain thanks to my parents. If I won? Then I could escape my shit hole house without leaving Action to die. Then again. What kind of a douchebag kills twenty three people just to take care of a cat?