Born Bad‪.‬ Martin

They didn't believe me. But why?

I do know why, in a way. But apparently, I'm just young and full of imagination, and run away with it. I'm dramatic and fanciful, and don't know what I'm talking about. Or maybe I'm ill? And I've heard them say worse. "That child... they scare the bejesus out of me sometimes."

I've been called an attention seeker at times too, but I don't get why they say that like it's a bad thing. And a teacher that really hated my quotes and questions told me I was just a bad child. Born bad, I think they added. I told them I'd get back to them, and now I think I can.

There's not enough excitement in a normal day and life. I'm just adding some in. Mostly verbally. Occasionally physically, but I've found that isn't as effective. There's not much to think about when all you do is act instead of say. And the things I say - they're relevant, really.

Like that one time I woke up early in the morning, so early that it was still dark out, the sky's colours a slushy navy. I didn't bother to rub my eyes, so they were still a little blurry as I slipped out of bed and got a glass of water. I came back, stood in front of the long wall mirror in the hall, and played rock-paper-scissors randomly against my reflection. When my dad heard me exclaiming and sighing, he asked what I was doing. And so I told him.