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// Chapter 1: Growing Up 
// Story: DEADLIF3 
// by DeadP0N3 
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	Twelve years ago I was brought into this world. This… Ungrateful world.  When I was born, everything was fine. I had a loving family. I had… A family. A good family. Not the kind that will stab your back and neglect you in your time of need.

Anyways, when I was one year old, I received a scarf. It was a scarf for an adult so I couldn’t wear it. The pony who gave it to me was my uncle, now deceased. I cherished that scarf. Every day I would sleep with it, never let it out of my sight. It was my everything. Well, so were my parents until I turned three.

When I was two, my parents had another foal. That was when the neglect started to happen. They stopped paying attention to me. I was… Alone. I loved my brother. We both got along just great. Little did I know that we would slowly fade apart. 

When I was three years old, my family started to deteriorate. Every day they would fight. They would fight, and fight, and fight, until one day, my father decided to leave. He abandoned my mom, brother, and I. At least I knew that my loving mom would never leave me no matter what. I was wrong. Very wrong. 

When I turned five, I started school. That is where it all began. The misery. I was teased for my looks. They said I had a weird mane. My tail looked funny. The scarf was stupid. I was stupid. Even though it was preschool, it still had an impact on me. 

Throughout grade 4-10 I was bullied more. Called every name they could think of. Gay, stupid, retarded, faggot, douche bag. I cannot repeat the other words. I was pushed, kicked, punched, spit on, thrown into walls, even bucked out of a window. They would break me, mentally and physically. I started cutting myself when I was only nine. 

They would always make fun of my name, which was a normal name. 

Every day, “Noah is a gay name. Your parents must hate you.”

They would make fun of my name, Noah. We had another Noah in the classroom. He was popular. They didn't mind his name. They thought it was cool. He even made fun of me. Noah would make fun of me because my name was Noah. It made no sense. I hated all the teasing. Now only few ponies know my real name. 

When I was in 7th grade, I was pushed out of a school window. We had a two story school. I was running from some colts that were beating me up. I went down a dead end hall with a window at the end. I watched as the colts approached, they finally got to me.

One colt walked up to me. He grabbed me by my scarf and punched me in the face, knocking me to the ground. He pulled me back up and held me. Another colt came up and turned around. I knew what was going to happen. He got ready, and bucked me out of the window, the glass puncturing my skin. I hit the ground like a ragdoll. My body smashing against the concrete. I started to cough up blood. Nopony helped. 

I laid there, covered in my own blood, broken in so many places. Somepony walking his dog finally saw me later on and called an ambulance. I doubt he cared though. They got me to the hospital. My mother met me there and stayed by my side. I had three broken ribs, a broken wrist, and a fractured leg. I was hospitalized for a week because of those colts.

When I got out of the hospital, I was met by the colts again. They wanted to help me with my things. Big mistake for me to let them. I later found that they stole all the contents in my backpack. They would ask to hold my tray. Another mistake. I would get my food, pay for it, and get a tray full of food to the face in front of the whole grade. They broke my leg cast and re-broke it, hospitalizing me again for another day. 

Those colts made my life a living hell. They tore my life apart. Made me feel worthless. Led me to suicide. I got home and it was empty. My mom had gone out of town and wouldn’t be returning until later that night. I was tired of being bullied. 

I would end it all that night. I found a gas can in the back yard. I poured gas all over myself and sat in the living room. Lighter in my hand, I lit a fire. Not a spark would come out of the lighter. It was out of lighter fluid. I got another lighter. Out of lighter fluid. 

I sat there, drenched in gasoline as I got an idea. The oven. I walked over to the oven and turned it on. I waited until it was hot and opened the oven. I was right about to climb in when a hoof grabbed my arm, pulling me away. It was my mom. She slapped me across the face and yelled at me. Later that week, she left.

I thought that she would stay by my side. Wrong. I thought that she loved me. Wrong. My family was gone. I was eleven years old, living alone. Abandoned. They even took my brother away from me. The only one I loved. My own brother. They took the only thing that mattered in life to me was ripped away from me.

Once my mom left, I changed my name. I was really into music and into DJ-Pon3 at the time. I was thinking of a name when it hit me… DeadPon3. I wanted to die. This name suited me better. Expressed my feelings better. This new name was… Me. I liked it. I had it legally changed and it stuck for the rest of the time I had been living. 

Even though I was alone, except for my scarf, journal, and razor, I felt a bit better about my life. Glad that those Back-Stabbers I called parents were gone for good. Glad that I had a new name that expressed me better. Glad that I was… Alone.