Revelations: Seth Rowls

Posted on December 19, 2011


My name is Seth Rowls, and my existence has been damned since the moment of conception. Maybe you could go back further, to when my parents met. Though if you looked at it that way, there would be no end. It would go back to their parents, and their parents’ parents…

Let’s leave it at my conception.

It’s funny that I mention ‘no end’. My whole fucking existence has been centered around ‘no end’. When I would hide in those dark places as my parents argued, I would wonder, “When will it stop? Why won’t they stop?”  The answer was never. Long after they divorced, they still couldn’t get along. Their hatred for each other only grew more and more. And I still remained at the center of their hellish divide. Though I increasingly leaned towards my mother, who I deemed to be more rational than my father. But for every time I listened to my mother, there was an insulting backlash from my father. He called me a coward, and said I was less of a man for listening to her. He thought I was afraid of her. Truth be told, it was the other way around. My father would also express disappointment for my lack of a love life. He constantly reminded me of how many girlfriends he had at my age. His ridicule, along with societal pressures for having a significant other, drove me crazy. I couldn’t stand how society was so hell-bent on casual sex with multiple partners, or just having a significant other in general. I felt like a freak of nature not having a relationship. People would ask:

“You have a girlfriend?”


“Why not?”

Why not. Why not? Who the fuck cares, why not? Why is it so important to them whether or not I have someone to love? It was my problem, not theirs. It was bad enough I had to trudge through the knee-deep bullshit life was providing me, let alone others going about wondering what could be so fucking wrong with me that I don’t have a girlfriend! Do you want to know what’s ‘wrong’? Huh? You wanna’ know what makes me so fucked up that I don’t have a girlfriend?


I’m lacking in fucking confidence, you mother fucker. So that makes me shy. So, shy equals having a shitty existence.  You know I actually thought about being a serial killer once. Yeah. My icon was Michael fucking Meyers. Can you imagine what that’s like? To be so depraved by life that murder becomes an option? Forget murder. To be so goddamn broken and ripped apart mentally that you actually have thoughts that defy the natural human instinct to live? I’m talking about suicide. Do you realize the scope of it? An act that defies millions of years of evolution. A creature actually wishing for death, instead of doing what it can to survive, adapt. Or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe suicide is a form of natural selection. What’s your take?

At this point, I’m sure you think I’m pretty screwed in the head. Good. I am. You wanna know some of the screwy things I’ve done? Huh?

I’ve cut myself. Over and over again. And I wrote messages in my own blood. What else? I fucking cut my lips. Cause I knew I’d never kiss a girl. So I fucking cut them. Over and over again, and made a nice bloody fucking mess. I’ve carved names into my own skin. I’ve burned myself. I’ve banged my forehead on plywood until it bled, and then scraped it along a cement wall.

Life, what more do you want out of me?

What do you want me to cut next? My neck maybe? My wrists? Oh wait, I already did that. And look where I ended up. It might as well be hell. But it’s a psych ward. Somewhere. I don’t remember how I got here. I remember taking a razor blade and cutting my wrist…lots of blood…then everything went dark. Then I woke up in this small room, where everything is white. I was on the bed when I awoke. I looked around. There wasn’t much to this place. A little night stand next to my bed, with a lamp. I got up and banged on the door. No one came.

So I sat here in the corner, and started thinking…

The voices keep me company.

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