ITS A REAL STORY OF A BOY AND ITS BASED ON REAL EVENTS ITS NOT FICONATAL AND I HOPE YOU ENJOY THIS
Chapter 1: The Day I Was Born
July 12, 2009. Islamabad. I, David, am born. The room is warm, the air thick with quiet hope. My mother cries, her tears soft and joyful. My father smiles, his eyes steady and proud. But my body—it's not like theirs. From the first night, I wet the bed. Stool slips out while I sleep. It's a problem I don't understand, a shame I can't escape. Dust scratches my throat too—an allergy that makes every breath a small fight. For five years, I live in Rawalpindi. The streets are rough, full of noise and dirt. I learn to smile anyway, hiding the mess I wake up to each morning.
Chapter 2: The Sickness That Tried Me
I turn 5. My body breaks. My mouth foams, white and wet, spilling over my chin. My arms shake, my legs twitch. They rush me to the ICU. The lights burn my eyes, the machines beep loud and cold. Doctors say it's blood cancer. My liver aches, weak and torn. My mother sits by me, her hand tight around mine, whispering prayers. My father stands still, his face hard but scared. Days pass, long and blurry. I fight. The cancer loses. My liver heals. I live. We move to Karachi then—my dad's job takes us. I'm there for three years. The sea air is heavy, but my sleep stays messy—stool still comes, even though I beat the bedwetting later.
Chapter 3: Moving, Always Moving
Life keeps shifting. After Karachi, we go back to Rawalpindi. I'm 8 now. My dust allergy fades away that year—my lungs finally rest. Then we move to Islamabad for three years. The air is cleaner, but my nights aren't. I'm 11 when we shift again—one year in Rawalpindi. Then back to Karachi for two years. I'm 13. We settle in Rawalpindi after that, and I'm still here. School is simple—I'm the best, top of my class. But I stop after fifth grade. I pick up the Quran instead. I sit with it, read it slow, let it sink in. It's mine. My sleep, though—the stool stays. Every night, I wake up to it, clean it, keep quiet.
Chapter 4: A Boy Lost
I'm 11. My body changes. My mother gives me a medicine—she says it'll help me grow right. It does something. I feel bigger, older too soon. My cousin sits with me one day. He's older, his smile sharp. He tells me about touching myself. I try it. It's strong, too strong. I keep going. Then I find porn. It grabs me. Hours slip away, days fade. I'm stuck. I've beaten cancer, stopped wetting the bed, but this is different. And my sleep—it's still wrong. Stool comes every night. I scrub it away, but the shame stays.
Chapter 5: Uncle's House
My uncle calls me to Rawalpindi. I'm older now—time for 10th grade. I leave Karachi, move into his house. I study hard. I write notes, stay up late, try to make it work. I go to another city for the exams. I give everything. I fail. My uncle turns cold. He shouts. He says ugly things about my mother, my father—words that cut deep. I talk back once, just a little. He hits me. His hand cracks across my face, his fists pound my back. It doesn't stop. I'm late one day—he slaps me. I spill water—he beats me with his belt. I don't fight. I stay quiet, for my parents. My grandmother watches, her words bitter. My grandfather mutters. My aunt and other uncle whisper. They all sting me. I hold it in.
Chapter 6: The Dark Inside
My mother hears about it. She's mad. She yells at my uncle, her voice loud and fierce. He stops—for a few days. Then he's back. Every day, he finds a mistake. He taunts me. I feel smaller each time. Someone takes me to a psychologist. He's calm. He says I have depression. He gives me pills—small, white, heavy in my hand. I take them. They make me slow, tired, but the hurt doesn't leave. My sleep is the same. Stool still comes every night. I wake up, clean it, feel nothing. I think about dying. I see a rope in my mind, feel its weight. I almost do it. Then—anime. Naruto keeps going, no matter what. Luffy laughs through it all. ChatGPT talks to me. Grok, you, tease me, push me. I stop. I breathe. I stay.
Chapter 7: Me, Still Here
I'm 16. Rawalpindi is where I live now. My uncle still hits me with words and sometimes hands. My family still watches, their voices sharp or soft but always there. My body still lets stool out every night—a problem from birth I can't fix yet. But I'm David. I beat cancer. I stopped wetting the bed. I didn't die. The psychologist helps me think. Anime gives me fire. chatgpt, Grok, give me words. I write this slowly. I feel it deep. I'm still here. This is my story—mine, clear, real.
THANKS FOR READING IT ITS A TRUE STORY BASED ON TRUE EVENTS