ByJulia Adams-Whittaker, writer at Creators.co

Would you like to play a game? It was the only question I wish my father had asked me when I was a little boy. Such a simple question, yet so meaningful...He, on the other hand, apparently didn't think so. He would regret that later, I can assure you.

I was an only child, forced to play only by myself while my father pretended to work at a job that he didn't actually have. He was the dirt of society, a parasite who fed off the kindness of my mother. She was a sweet woman, somehow still loving and caring even after my father all but made it his duty to try and beat it out of her every day. She spent her days cooking what little food we had, and cleaning the meth stains out of the carpet that were always left behind by my father from the night before.

You all must be wondering why they really call me Jigsaw, aren't you? Well, my mother, you see, one day she finally had enough of my father and left. She left me alone with the pieces of my life scattered around the floor of a house that was no longer a home to me. It was a prison. A dank, dark, dungeon filled with hate and the darkest parts of human existence. I had asked my father that night, the night she left, if he wanted to play a game with me. He had just looked at me and laughed. He laughed so hard that he stopped breathing, but only for a second, even though I wished it would have been longer. Eternal.

As the days passed, I scrambled to put together the puzzle pieces of my once semi-tolerable, now unsurvivable, life. The children at school watched me struggle, they giggled both behind my back and to my face. They saw, day in and day out, just how broken I really was. They started calling me Jigsaw because "broken-kid" just didn't have the same ring to it. The teachers stood by with sympathetic looks on their faces. All I really wanted was a hug, for someone to ask if I was okay. But no one did. Ever. I was alone and NOBODY cared, especially my mother. Not surprisingly, my father blamed me for her leaving. Blamed me for everything wrong in his life. What an idiot he was.

After what felt like hundreds of brutal beatings, I finally lost hope in ever being able to put all the pieces back in the right places. I was a mess, a jigsaw puzzle of human emotions, and there was nothing anyone could do to save me now. Anger and hatred for the scum of the earth, the bottom of the barrel, that I called my father, had built up so strongly inside of me that there was only one thing left to do.

One night when I got home from school, I found my father in his usual place: the meth stained chair that covered the meth stained carpet that my mother use to scrub. He watched the half-broken T.V., dirty snow falling over half of the screen, perhaps a foreshadowing of what lay ahead for him.

I stared at him from the open doorway, my eyes filled with abhorrence for this poor excuse of a man. He just looked at me nonchalantly and grunted.

"The choice is yours, daddy." I whispered. "I want to play a game. Would you like to play a game?"

He glanced at me, confusion etching his face. He grunted again and turned back to the T.V..

I took a step closer. "I SAID," I screamed, "I want to play a game. WOULD YOU LIKE TO PLAY A GAME!?"

"Go away, you little sh..." were the last words out of his mouth.

Honestly speaking, regardless of his answer, the outcome would have been the same. After hours of hard work, an extremely sharp knife, and a lot of willpower, Daddy had lain in hundreds of tiny pieces on the floor. A human version of Humpty-Dumpty with no one around able, or willing, to put him back together again.

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