When in my life did this matter so much? When was I able to just sit back and relax and not have to worry about the problems of today? I haven’t been living in a real home most of my life, I may have lived in houses but they never were really home for me.  As of today I haven’t lived in a ‘Home’ in ten years. I honestly haven’t cared, but according to most I should have been adopted by now, it’s not really my fault that every time I get angry I end up killing someone, I don’t even know how I do I just get mad, I black out and then by the time I’m conscious again my hands are scorched and blistered and the foster parents I had been with were dead.
    They tell me that the fires were caused by a gas leak or something in the oven catching on fire but how is that true if most of the time when the people died we were in my room, not in the kitchen, and how come when the fire happened there wasn't any sign of a fire in the kitchen. There was actually a point when we were in the living room fighting and all of a sudden I hear blood warming scream as high pitched as a recorder being blown into with all their might and a siren type sound coming out, then I looked down at my hands that one time I didn’t pass out and I saw flames licking them, I look up at my now quiet ’Parents’ and they are slowly, ever so slowly sinking to the ground their flesh sizzling from the fire that engulfed them, the stench of burning flesh filling the air. After my ‘parents’ had fallen to the ground I had looked at my hands and they looked the same as they did any other time this happened, but there’s one catch, my hands never have been scarred because of the fire, and they, not once, have hurt afterward.
    But this time there won’t be a story to back me up, to find me not guilty, mainly because I killed hundreds of people at once that last time.