I learned at an early age that life was not a fucking fairytale.

At least not mine.

There were no heroes who came to save the day when you needed them, no magical woodland creatures to sing your sorrows to, and no fucking little fairies running around granting wishes to the unfortunate.

Instead, life was just a series of random moments strung together that defined who you were. My moments early in life shaped me into the person I became—someone incapable of trust who lacked the ability to love. I walked through life angry and filled with hate. I was conditioned to see only the bad parts of humanity. When I did happen to stumble upon some good, I twisted and warped it until there was nothing left.

I wasn't going to lie; I was selfish. I was a user and a taker.

I was not the perfect guy that spouted bullshit poetry lines to sweep a girl off their feet in the rain. I didn't take long walks on the beach under the moonlight or hold hands while looking up at the stars. I wasn't the guy who brought a girl a box of chocolates just to see the smile on her face.

I was a purely unfiltered asshole and perfectly content with it, or so I thought.

What was once the coping mechanism developed by a scared child became my identity. When the anger-filled guard I put up wasn't enough, I started filling my body with drugs and alcohol to dull my tortured mind. That's how I learned to survive the pain life handed me.

If I didn't have to actually live in this life, then nothing could hurt me.

I never expected anyone to understand why I did the things I did because I didn't understand them myself. I never felt like I had a choice in who I became; it was something written and predestined the moment I was brought into existence. I definitely had no control over it. I was created this way by an abusive, absentee father who knocked my mother up at the age of fifteen and fed her false truths about how he would take care of what was his.

He took care of us all right, just not in the ways he promised.

I spent most of my childhood helping my mom cover her bruises. At three years old, I learned how to help her paint the face she let the world see.  She would tell me my dad didn't mean to do it, that he just got so mad sometimes he had to let it out.

He let it out on her often.

The only time she was ever safe was when he would disappear for weeks at a time. Things would start to get normal for a while and she would even start to smile again. He would come back just as everything looked brighter for us. He would apologize and beg for her forgiveness. He would pick me up in his arms, spin me around, and tell me how much he loved me. He would take her by the hand and promise her that tomorrow would be a new beginning for us. My dad promised he would change for her, for us.

I never believed him, but Mom always did. No matter how many times he let her down, she always took him back.

After a few days, the cycle would start all over again. The bruises would come back slowly until they covered every inch of her body.

My mom smiled through her pain during the daytime when she would play with me.  She would take me outside and chase me around the front yard as she limped around in agony from the drug-fueled beating she endured the night before. We weren't allowed inside the house when he was home sleeping during the day. If I made a noise and woke him up, she would be the one who suffered. He would take it out on her even if it was my fault.

Mom would cry in the middle of the night when she thought I couldn't hear her.  Every night she buried her tears into her pillow. Her pain was the lullaby I fell asleep to. Sometimes when he was particularly bad, she would sneak into my room and curl up in my bed to hold me. She would be shaking as she wrapped her hand in mine. I would sing to her softly until she fell fast asleep.

No matter what happened or what he did to her, she always apologized like she was the person who did something wrong. He had conditioned her over years of torture to think she was not good enough for him and she never deserved any better.

When I got old enough to see the signs that he was about to turn against her, I willingly stood in his way to save her. The marks he put on her started appearing on me too. I wore them like a badge of honor because it was one less time he hurt her. It was one less time I found her on the floor bleeding, pleading for him to stop.

Even when child services would get called in, I would hide our secrets and lie. I would tell them I fell while running or hurt myself playing with my cousins.  It didn't take me long to realize if I was gone, she would be alone, which would be the death of her. One day he was going to go too far. One day, he would kill her, and it would be my fault because I was not there to stop him this time.

It was twisted and fucked up, but it was all that I knew.

I vowed at the age of six that I never was going to be him, even if it meant I had to close myself off to do it. Six years old and I had already lost my faith in the world because of that poor excuse of a man.

In the end, I couldn't stop the change that overtook me as I got older. I was always angry, even after he finally left us for good. I would burst out in a sudden fit of rage and had no idea why or what I was doing. Sometimes I would even blackout when it got really bad.  It was like my brain closed my eyes so I couldn't witness the damage I was unleashing. I didn't want to be this way, but I didn't know how to change it either. 

The harder I fought to be different, the more like him I became. I fought so hard to keep that side of me hidden in the shadows, to never let anyone get too close to see the mask I wore.  I pretended to be strong, when deep inside, I was insecure and suffering.  I didn't know how to give a fuck about someone and I kept everyone at arm's length to make sure I never had to try.

By the time I realized how wrong I had become, I was already underwater, gasping for air. The roots of my addiction were deep and I was falling fast. I couldn't find which way was up. My body sucked in the salty seawater into my lungs until I couldn't breathe.

That was when I found her. That beautiful girl with the most trusting, sparkling green eyes. She reached out her small hand and placed it in mine. She held it tightly as she tried to pull me back up to the surface. She was fighting to save me, but I couldn't move my arms or legs to save myself. No one had ever taught me how.

If I would have known what was going to happen, I would have never tipped the boat and dragged her under with me. She fought with everything she had inside to pull us to safety and I held on tighter, pulling her down with me like a weighted chain tied to her tiny little body.  She was strong until her body and mind tired from the fight. She gave up and sank lower and lower into the depths until she was gone. Gone out of my life and left a ghost of the girl she once was. 

It had been said many times by someone much smarter than I that there are two sides to every story. This one was no different. Depending on which way it was turned or spun, the villain was not always who you expected them to be. If you heard her side of what happened, you might call me a devil or a psychopath. To be honest, I was at the time. I didn't know how to be any better and I was the one who didn't try hard enough to learn. I couldn't point my finger and blame anyone else for my actions, no matter how much I wanted to. I chose to do the things I did and she suffered the consequences.

Fuck, that girl suffered.

Many people pointed at her, called her names, and said she was stupid or weak-willed for her role in our relationship. What did they expect? She was so young and even more inexperienced in life than I was. She was constantly used and manipulated by the people around her and she was too good of a person to realize not everyone in her life had her best interests at heart, including the people she trusted the most.

She always gave everything she had willingly, even when she had nothing left to give. It was what made her so beautiful but also made her that much more vulnerable.

The back and forth, the passion and pleasure, the love and heartbreak that we shared together slowly drove her to madness too. That was part of what drew me to her in the first place.  There was a fire inside her that burned brightly and I wanted to be surrounded by her warmth because my heart had been frozen for so long. I couldn't stay away even though I knew I shouldn't want her the way I did. I wasn't the type of guy she needed in her life and she deserved someone much better than me.

In the end, my selfish brain won out. I took her even though I knew it was wrong.

My girl saved me as I broke her.

This was us. The story about the beautiful girl who stole my breath away and then breathed life back into me. The girl who rebuilt the damaged pieces inside me and gave me strength again. I will spend every day of my life apologizing for the things I did to her and it will never be enough. I never deserved to find her.

I was sorry for the hell I put her through.

I was so fucking sorry.