One level below hell

I am so tired of people. Life. Not belonging.
Maybe fitting in no place is acceptable, but when you don't even fit in with your family, when you can't talk without being yelled at or hit, when you have nowhere you can find comfort and solace, you are truly lost. I have spent many hours standing on the edges of roofs or looking out of windows, wishing I could jump. Not because I want to die, but because I think maybe I'll find what I've been looking for. I have no way out. I do not know what will happen to me as the years progress; I do not care.

I do not want to be here. The world is miserable. Even something as small as worms drowning in puddles after a storm can be turned into devastating symbolism, can raise horrifying questions. Will they too search for survivors? Greive? Dispose of the carnage? Feel the horror and shock of knowing that a third of their population has been wiped out in a single night?

These questions cannot be answered in books, but in dreams. The nightmares I endure regularly explain things such as this, though the answers are not ones I want to hear. Misery is endless and oppressive. Its' black fingertips stretch beyond the human race (which surely is deserving of such pain) and grab hold of the innocent, the perfect. Even something so small as a population of worms must suffer, must feel pain. Here in a world where nothing is untouchable by hatred, where nothing is devoid of sorrow, I cannot exist.