There's something terrifying about the realization that you have the power to end a human life with your own two hands. It's more worrying when you realize that that human life can be yours.

It can concern you, but I can assure that it will worry your guardian even more.

I was a clumsy child practically from the day I was born. Throughout my childhood, I experienced a plethora of scrapes, scars, and broken bones. My mother was constantly worried that I was going to seriously injure myself - or worse - accidentally end up killing myself somehow.

My life was pretty average when I was growing up. My mother stayed at home and took care of myself, my older brother, and the house while my father worked at an office building.

They were very different people when compared. My mother had a big heart and she was constantly worrying over something whereas my father was more careless and stern.

I always wondered how they ended up together, as they weren't very similar, but they loved each other and got along well.

At least, they did.

My parents ended up getting divorced when I was nine and my brother was eleven. We hardly ever saw my father after they split up and he moved out.

Mother told us that he loved work more than he loved her and even at the young age of nine, I understood and had already known that. He was always gone at work and even if he was at home, he was in his office or talking about it at the dinner table.

That was why it didn't surprise me at all when my mother told us that he didn't fight to see my brother and I. He never even called to talk to us or see how we were doing.

I decided that I didn't have a father and that I was okay with that. All I needed was my mother and my brother. We were a better family without him, in all honesty.

Growing up without my father was hard, as he had been with us for almost ten years of my life. It was odd getting used to it only being the three of us. I was fine that he left, as he was never much of a father to me.

That's what I thought, anyway.

A few years went by and we fell into normal patterns once again. Things seemed to be going so well and we were all so happy with each other. My brother was happy. My mother was happy. I was happy.

When I was thirteen years old, my mother came to me and asked me if I was depressed. I immediately told her no, because how could she ask me something like that? I obviously wasn't.

Her question stuck with me for a while after she had confronted me, though.

"Are you depressed?"

I had answered her so quickly that I didn't even give myself time to think about it. Was I depressed? I was never really sure if I was or not. I don't think I was. Sad, maybe, but surely not depressed.

My mother didn't believe me, so she kept a close eye on me. She was always checking on me, asking how I was doing, and speaking kind words to me. She must've mentioned something to my brother about it too, as he began acting nicer toward me.

This went on for some time; my mother thinking I was depressed and treating me like delicate porcelain that was in danger of being shattered.

I didn't mind it much, but at times it could be aggravating and she could be too overbearing. She did routine check-ups to make sure I wasn't harming myself or planning to.

One night I spoke with my brother about it and he must've have spoken to her, as she calmed down with all of it soon after. She was still worried, but she wasn't watching me like a hawk day and night.

As I got older, I began to change. I was no longer this outgoing, talkative teenager. I became isolated. I kept to myself more often than not and I preferred to be by myself or with little company.

Seventeen years old, I grew to be an angry person, though I kept all of my anger on the inside. Rage burned inside of me day in and day out. My mind harbored ill thoughts toward my father - if I could even call him that.

When I was younger, I was sad yet I accepted the fact that he didn't love any of us and wasn't coming back. Growing older, I adopted this ferocity to myself and I wanted nothing more than to scream at the man face-to-face.

I longed to tell him how much of a coward he was, for walking away from his wife and two children. I wanted to curse at him and call him every crude name I could possibly ever think of. I just wanted him to feel the same hurt from my words that I felt when he walked out the front door of our home and never even dared to glance back.

Seeing him was simultaneously like a sigh of relief and a punch in the gut. Thankful because I would finally get to give him a piece of my mind. Sick to my stomach because all of the memories I had with came rushing through my mind at once.

Instead of crying or throwing a fit like I wanted to, I approached him with a smile and told him who I was. He didn't recognize me at first, but seemed absolutely elated to see me.

Confusion knocked me upside the head when he began to cry tears of joy and pulled me into a warm embrace. He told me that he had tried to contact my brother and I for years, but our phone number was disconnected and he couldn't find any other form of communication to reach us.

Sobbing, he explained how he had tried so hard to get my mother to allow him to see us, as the court had granted him visitation rights, but she would never let him.

For eight years of my life, I believed that my father hated us and didn't want a thing to do with my brother and I. It turned out that it was my mother who didn't want us to have anything to do with him.

I was never quite sure why she never permitted him to see us, though I was sure that a new fire was burning inside of me, full of angry confusion toward her.

Maybe it was because she was so worried. She was always too busy worrying to notice anything else.

My mother was always worried that I was going to kill myself, either accidentally or on purpose, however that wasn't what she should've been worried about.

There's something terrifying, but satisfying when you utilize the power to end a human life with your own two hands.