So here i stand. The edge of eternity never has been this definate. And despite this fact, it's still shrouded in the same black void of mystery as always. It's sad, yet humourous how things have a way of remaining a mystery. Take life.
Take frindship.
Take family.
I wasn't always this cynical, hell, i didn't really even like to say much. But it doesn't matter now.
Nothing does.
On nevermind, you won't realize this until it's too late, not unlike myself. Don't get me wrong, this isn't a bad thing and I fully forgive you for not understanding.
Me.
This story.
Yourself.

Like all stories, mine has a beginning. Unlike the vast majority of stories, mine's somewhat undefined. Let's start at the earliest of possibilities. When I was seven, my parents called their offspring into the living room.
Haden, my brother.
Alisha, my sister.
Myself, the narrator.
Onto the new couch we piled in that order. All of us anxious to get back to whatever we were doing.
Everything around us was new.
The floor.
The windows.
The living room.
My dad had just finished remodelling the house. A year long project, during which all three if his kids dwelled in a trailor that was parked in the driveway.
My mom and her spouse slept in the already finished side room.
Of course we didn't mind. We being the respective offspring of the dwellers in the sideroom. We didn't mind the cramped quarters. Stale air. Oven-like heat. How could we? After this we would have our own rooms, complete with our choice of colored paint.
I chose blue.
The couch we were sitting on had arrived only days before.
Not a scratch was visible on the hardwood floor.
Sticker residue still lingered on the window through which a cold winter sunlight shown through.
All new.
Things were looking up for us finally. Before this remodel we had three kids in one room.
Bunk beds; our best friend.
For years my family had been saving for this; it was their dream.
Now that I'm thinking about this, it didn't start with them calling their kids out of their rooms. Busily unpacking their worn possessions. It started with Alisah running to the narrator excitedly. Wide eyed one of the symptoms.
She had a secret. Oh, you should of seen how badly she wanted to tell it. Sadly, there are rules to being a little sister. One of them is that, no matter how pressing, you cannot tell your brother something without first teasing him. And tease she did.
Demanding bribes.
Offering trades.
Evil child.
Eventually we reached an agreement, her secret for a dime. After procurring said payment from my change jar, her end of the bargain came up. With raised eyebrows, a dime in her pocket, and one tooth short of a sly smile, she told me.
"Mom and dad are smoking."
While I admit, it wasn't exactly what I was thinking of, it was exciting enough to inspire my nine-year-old self to go to have a look.
To the kitchen window we crept, and through it with hanging breath, we saw them. Sitting in white plastic chairs on the yet to be stained porch, sat my parents.
Just sitting.
Smoking.
This is how it started. They never smoked and made sure to lecture us about the evils of such a habit. There they were, I didn't know a word for the situation, give me a few years, I'd learn one.
Hipocrits.

She's standing at the door. Me; I'm midway through unpacking my Lego models and putting them on the luxouriously wide cill.
"We need you in the living room."
At first I think I'm in trouble; maybe they saw me busting my worst Ethan Hunt impersonation. So I followed.
Head stays down.
Avoid eye contact.
Things every child knows to do when they feel guilty.
This would bring us back to where we left off.

So there we sat on the couch, all of us feeling guilty for something. Admiring our scratchless floor.
"We don't know any better way to say this, so we'll just come out and say it. We've talked, and decided to get a divorce."
Not a single scratch, they better have tipped the movers.
"We want you to understand that despite what happens, we still love you."
Whatever happens. So despite the move out of our nice warm ous into two damp cold rentals.
Screaming at each other in the driveway.
Custody battles.
Child support arguements.
Blaming everything in the world on each other.
Dating complete pieces of shit to make each other jealous.
Forcing my dad to move on.
They still loved us.
Would you believe that?

That would be the logical place to start. Afterall, it was the first in what seemed like an inexorable progression of blows to my ability to trust people. Yea, in all likelihood it would be a great starting place, except for one thing, it has the least relevance to the current state of affairs. All it did was set the stage. Everything important happened within the last few days.
But it did paint the scene.
Pave the way for a long line of people to enter, then leave my life. After awhile, you learn not to become attached to anything.
Nothing lasts. You learn that quickly.
Nothing can ever become permanent. For me, life became an ice pack. The face of the planet.
Static.
On second thought, it's the ideal place to start. See what I mean about everything subject to change?

Imagine this story as a nightmare loop. A tape that will play over and over as I burn in hell. Most of my life should be on this reel. Frame after frame, the seconds would fly by.
What's pain to mental anguish?
But, beauty is in the eyes of the beholder.
So is disfigurment.
Disgust.
Horror.
So while this could be a long winded detailed account of every mistake and heavenly misdemenor, it won't, what would be the point?
Expect nothing but everything, and realize that nothing lasts.
Even confusion.