LIFE...

Life in itself is monotony.

Day in, day out - same thing every single fucking time. You get up go fulfill the requirements for the day, making certain to eat, piss and shit. And maybe - just maybe - by the end of it, you might catch the tail end of sleep.

"You think that's bad? I think that's child's play. Try living in a war zone. Matter o' fact, here's the gun, have at it son. Good luck!" he chuckles to himself as he slowly walks away.

You see, my entire life, I've done nothing but fight. I don't think my trainer knew that when he handed me that gun. What he saw was some city slicker, who grew up pampered by his parents. I don't think it ever occurred to him that, growing up, I was the bastard child, the one who always came home to a doting mother, who cared for the multitudes of bruises, cuts, and stab wounds, while the uncaring, drunkard of a father stood there through the doorway leading into the kitchen yelling at his youngest son of three, asking him why he couldn't be like his other two sons? Why couldn't he be like his oldest, football scholarship to the local college. Or like the middle child, who got into Harvard with a 4.0 average grade point average. To his father, he was always doing something wrong, even before he had ever done wrong. "The child didn't start off wrong," like his mother would say, as his father never would. "He tried to please us so much, but he never could get it right." To which he never could find words to counter. Because, as it were, they stood right.

And nothing else mattered...