Home…what a taboo word that is. By definition, home is a place of residence, but to most, it means a place of belonging, some place where one is safe from harm and where nothing could happen to them. However…that is never often the case. For some, home is a ball and chain wrapped around ones ankles. For others, home is nothing but a desolate horror show, waiting to crumble and eventually collapse. Walls that once held such smiling faces are now the faces of ghosts that haunt the hollow drywall. Paint that was once so bright, now all fade back to a common shade of grey. But for me? Home is none of these things. For me, home…does not even exist. It never has, no matter what building they force me to live in, with these imbecilic people that are supposed to be my family, how absurd a thought is that. Never in my life had I seen the faces of the ones in front of me, nor the faces of the photos in real life. My real family, the ghosts in the photos isn't even a memory. I was in none of those photos; my life had not yet even been a thought. They figured that the thought of my very existence would only blow over. Well, how imbecilic do they feel now? No different, I presume. They are laughing at my shadow while hiding in their own, yes. It is very clear to me. All the while I did not want a "home;" it would not be of any use now. There is no need for a home. The lashings of the whips shall heal quite the same as the rest; with dirt replacing blood in the canyon between skin and skin. They say that home is where one lays down their head. So tell me, would my home be considered bricks and masonry that is still scalding from the previous men slaving over it? Alas that is indeed so, from my perspective. My head bruised and battered from being used poorly as a hammer, lay to rest on the very object that it was used on. How morbid it seems, however the truth lies deep within these words.
However whose fault it is truly?
Perhaps it is theirs, for they are the ones who chose to leave my laying in the puddles of my urine and blood. They indeed are the ones who CHOSE to drag my down by my disheveled into the realm I now am fighting to change. They…did not kill me. No, they chose not to kill me. They wanted to watch me suffer throughout my life, to live with the scars they had inflicted upon me, for me to feel that unforgiving ache in my legs from the brandings, CONSTANT brandings!
Or maybe it had been me…Perhaps it had been my fault.
I know I could have been a much better son, had I not acquired this horrible mutation. This wretched disease that pummels me to the very bottom of the food chain, the precise disease that forces me to shield my eyes! It had been my fault for not amputating this infectious body. I could have sliced up my arms until the rivers of red began to pool. I could have taken my mother's kitchen knives and done away with my head, maybe leave it in a nice hand basket as a reward for my parents, to show that they finally received the gift they have always wanted. However no matter where my bacteria filled head ends up, they would not be able to get away from me. I still keep a level head as they keep their hardened, hate filled eyes glued inside their skulls.
So let me ask you, Mother. Why did you have to give me a home and let the plague spread?
