Injustice;

My mother died giving birth to me. From the moment I was born, everyone looked upon me with distaste. They saw me as bad luck to the family. I still remember what my aunt said to me when I was four. 揧ou抮e a jinx, you should never have been born.?

From young, I have always been tied down by these tentacles of criticism. The harder I tried to struggle away from the vice-like grip, the stronger the tentacles became. I was an intruder to the family; unwelcome and despised. I never belonged.

I tried to excel in school to please my father, but no matter how many times I topped the cohort, he would still ignore me, but dote on my frivolous sister instead. Each day I stayed in the library until dinner time before returning to my house, my prison. I walked home everyday, a solitary figure on the abandoned and forlorn path, while my father drove my sister home from school.

When I reached home, my sister would taunt me mercilessly. 揓inx, jinx, jinx,?she would chant, clapping her hands together. I would look to my father every time, hoping he would intervene, but he would always turn away. Each time I felt something stab my heart, something resembling the purest of pain.

I tried to explain to my family that it was not my fault that my mother died, but no one listened. Contempt was my best friend during childhood. I became paranoid and self-conscious as I grew older. Whenever I saw people looking in my direction, I would bend my head down quickly, escaping their eyes.

I had made a few friends on the first day of school, but they had retreated hastily when they knew about my dark secret. They did not want me to bring bad luck upon them too. I was left with no friends, wandering around aimlessly. Soon, people started bullying me. They called me The Freak and never failed to declare loudly that my entire family probably abhorred me for causing the death of my mother. It was as if I needed reminding. I was slapped in the face with that cruel fact everyday; in school, at home, in the dark corridors of my mind.

The teachers at school noticed that I was being ostracised by my peers, and called my father, requesting to meet him. Every time he received a call from them, he managed to come up with an excuse. Then he would turn to me with fire in his eyes and smack me hard. However, no tears would stream down my cheeks. I was long used to it.

Growing up was slow and agonizing, but I made it eventually. I emigrated to another country and started a new life there on my own. For a year I called and wrote to my 揻amily? but no one picked up my calls and no one wrote back. I gave up.

Injustice;

My mother died giving birth to me. From the moment I was born, everyone looked upon me with distaste. They saw me as bad luck to the family. I still remember what my aunt said to me when I was four. 揧ou抮e a jinx, you should never have been born.?

From young, I have always been tied down by these tentacles of criticism. The harder I tried to struggle away from the vice-like grip, the stronger the tentacles became. I was an intruder to the family; unwelcome and despised. I never belonged.

I tried to excel in school to please my father, but no matter how many times I topped the cohort, he would still ignore me, but dote on my frivolous sister instead. Each day I stayed in the library until dinner time before returning to my house, my prison. I walked home everyday, a solitary figure on the abandoned and forlorn path, while my father drove my sister home from school.

When I reached home, my sister would taunt me mercilessly. 揓inx, jinx, jinx,?she would chant, clapping her hands together. I would look to my father every time, hoping he would intervene, but he would always turn away. Each time I felt something stab my heart, something resembling the purest of pain.

I tried to explain to my family that it was not my fault that my mother died, but no one listened. Contempt was my best friend during childhood. I became paranoid and self-conscious as I grew older. Whenever I saw people looking in my direction, I would bend my head down quickly, escaping their eyes.

I had made a few friends on the first day of school, but they had retreated hastily when they knew about my dark secret. They did not want me to bring bad luck upon them too. I was left with no friends, wandering around aimlessly. Soon, people started bullying me. They called me The Freak and never failed to declare loudly that my entire family probably abhorred me for causing the death of my mother. It was as if I needed reminding. I was slapped in the face with that cruel fact everyday; in school, at home, in the dark corridors of my mind.

The teachers at school noticed that I was being ostracised by my peers, and called my father, requesting to meet him. Every time he received a call from them, he managed to come up with an excuse. Then he would turn to me with fire in his eyes and smack me hard. However, no tears would stream down my cheeks. I was long used to it.

Growing up was slow and agonizing, but I made it eventually. I emigrated to another country and started a new life there on my own. For a year I called and wrote to my 揻amily? but no one picked up my calls and no one wrote back. I gave up.