These are my words, and this is my story.

I will begin at the end as every good story should begin. I am dead. Not in a sense that my body has shut down and I have ceased to exist. Though I HAVE ceased to exist, metaphorically at least. It was a cold winter night, the night I ceased to exist. I had just gotten home to find every distraught. That is a lie, I got home and saw everything as it was supposed to be. THESE ARE MY WORDS, AND THIS IS MY STORY! I screamed at the top of my lungs. They were my words, part of my story. At the time those words seemed significant, important? Like anything I could do would EVER be important, 'not even in your dreams'.

I, myself, with my own hands DESTROYED everything in my path. It is my story, so why would I not? If you only have power over one thing do you take complete CONTROL over it, or do you delegate it to someone else? I wanted the control, over anything.

I woke up, my mind no longer distraught, my home was. I destroyed everything I have ever cared about. THESE ARE MY WORDS, AND THIS IS MY STORY, and this is my home. . . If my home was ever a reflection of myself it was now. I sit in the rubble, ruins? Something of the sort. DESTROYED, I did it. I, myself, with my own hands. How was I capable of such atrocities? Evil? Maybe.

I left, never looking back, never looked back, never wanting to, never having a reason, and with nothing to look at anyways. That was a lie of course. One of the little lies we tell ourselves daily to get by. I look back all the time; I am looking back now.

I am the dictator of my future, my words, my story. I am the historian of my past, or an archaeologist of some sort. Studying my past, and trying to understand why everything happened, or how. 'Those that do not study history are doomed to repeat it'. I know my history better than anyone, yet I repeat it all the time.