Hey everyone! I'm back with this short drabble that popped into my head while I was at work one morning. It took me some time to get it right, but I hope you enjoy it. Please let me know what you think.
He was never a very materialistic man. Maybe it was because of the way he was brought up, but the truth was that he wasn't one for flashy, hi-tech things. He never really had much to flash around in the faces of friends of enemies; not that he was the type. His few valued possessions were enough to keep him content: from his father's old brown leather jacket that fit him like a second skin and accented all the right places, to his beloved Impala, his safe haven, and the only home he's ever known.
Sure, he had a home once, a very long time ago. His memories of what life was like before that night were blurry and fading fast. He barely remembered his room; filled with stuffed animals, toys, games, and baseballs that he'd later share with his little sibling who was on the way. Sure, he remembers having all of these things, but he can't form a clear picture of them with his mind's eye. All of the comforts of a "normal" life were taken away from him at a young age and he'd grown accustomed to loss. Over the years, he learned to live without, and never really missed any of it.
So when he lost the most important thing in his world - a key part of who he was - he needed to find a way to get it back. Even if it meant offering up the only thing he ever had.
Himself.
xx