Life is a series of finish lines itching to be crossed. First tears, first steps, first kiss, all a finish line in each person's life. It continues on until we reach the final finish line in our death. My life consisted of some different lines that were crossed but I found myself at the same end game as everyone else. No matter how your life differs from good to great, bad to worse, we have the luxury of knowing each individual has one line in common, death. There's no extra lines past death for the wealthy, just as there's none extra for the wicked. In the end there is simply the end, or at least, that's what I chose to believe.

        My first line was crossed when I was seven, but I was too naive to even realize it at the time. I'll explain that in greater detail later. My second line was crossed when I was fourteen, while in high school. I was different than everyone else, I didn't go out of my way to talk to anyone; I kept to myself. Anyone who tried to get close to me I couldn't bring myself to trust, after all, everyone I knew was unbearably fake. I thought that anyone who'd be my friend in school wouldn't recognize my existence outside of it. They'd be friends with me simply to help pass the time, and once there was something better to do, I'd be nothing; an afterthought. No one even tried when I was younger. In grade school I sat alone in class, at lunch, at recess, and no one ever bothered to look my way. I didn't realize until some time later how much better being left alone was. At least, until I discovered the alternative.

       It was the third day of my second year of highschool, and in the first two days I had got by with no struggle. The bell rang signaling the end of my third class. I usually waited until everyone else had departed the classroom to get up and leave. As a situational loner, I preferred missing the crowd of my peers, less interaction meant less worry on my part. Though on that day, through whatever whim of chance, I left as soon as the bell rang, and soon after my line was torn through. I was tall but meek, strong bodied but weak willed, and that led to my perennial downfall since everyone knew I wouldn't hit back. In the hallway outside the classroom that day, the quiet awkward kid that no one bothered to get to know became the subject of everyone's attention. I was kicked, punched, spit on, and laughed at; all because I didn't act like everyone else. The teacher's either watched as I was beaten or turned their heads away in disgust. Eventually, blood began to seep into my line of sight, and my vision began to fade. I never went back to school again after that, I decided to stay home instead, in the company of my family.

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     Things were about as decent as one could expect, I'd wake up by 9, my school work was done by 12, and I had the rest of the day to spend in my own company. I never minded my own company, it was more like everyone else seemed too. Whether through bad jokes or one sided conversations, I always found ways to keep myself entertained. Things carried on like that for a few months, until my third line was abruptly shredded to pieces.

      You see, my family was always my comfort growing up. When I cried my mom would hold me to her chest and run her fingers through my hair. I distinctly remember her gently wiping the tears from my face with an old rag she always carried around in her purse. It had more dried stains than I could count, and its material had definitely seen better days, but every time she took that tattered rag out I would calm down. It was like clockwork, I'd stumble, I'd fall, and she was always there with that torn up old scrap. I haven't seen that rag in years.

       Despite having no 'real' friends, I had a best friend in my father. He used to make me laugh so much. The simplest, most mundane act was hilarious when my dad was involved. He was my everything.

      Then there was my younger sister. Sweet, stupid, Abbi. I was awful to her. I would yell, I would scream, I would curse, and she'd always just take it. Hell, she even idolized me for whatever reason. She was just so naive, so trusting, so stupid. I didn't deserve how she treated me as much as she didn't deserve how I treated her. Every time I was a demon, she was an angel.

      Even after I decided to stay home from school, I was supported and loved, held close and embraced. Then, one day my father was in a car crash that would lead to his own finish line. After that, I stayed in my room, alone. I stopped doing my schoolwork, I locked my door, and I cried. My mom had tried everything to get me out of my bedroom, but of course, nothing worked. I was officially a recluse, hiding from the world under the thin veil of my bedsheets.