It was always so bad.
I remember when I was very small, we kids on the floor eating white fur. We liked it, we had to like it, we had nothing else. It was probably tripe.
It was dark, it was always dark, we couldn't go outside in the sun, we were foreigners, the sun did not shine for us. We were hidden, we didn't speak the language. We hid.
One day, it was good, or it was supposed to be good. Was it Xmas? My Father had bought us something nice to eat. Outside it was raining, raining hard, we could hear it. My Father unwrapped it, we should have been happy. The rain was too much for our shack and the roof fell in. The dirty rainwater washed everything away and ruined everything.
My Father said fuck, he said fuck loudly, he screamed fuck a hundred times.
I've had enough!
He pulled out a gun, pointed it at his head and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.
He lowered the gun, it fired and shot him in the guts. He was in great pain, he was going to die slowly and in great pain, there were no more bullets.
His brother, my Uncle, came to us. My Father begged my Uncle to finish him off. How? The Uncle jumped on my Father, the sound of a breaking rib cage, he died slowly and in great pain.
We had to live, there were no more bullets.