It's like the rain.
My existence, that is.
Those were the words he, a freak and boy and son of a whore and everything in between thought. He, son of a-what? A drunk driver, a tripped up psycho, two inept bags of flesh who he thought of but didn't, couldn't, know.
He-cousin, and nephew of Auntie who he always feared, when she softened, when she chanced to look at him without flinching away. Once, she gave him a title, something Dudley (when he wasn't roughhousing, the word the man used, the one he was too cowardly to call Uncle) slipped on once, said was a name.
A name.
And was that really his name, he mused, into the starlit sky, weeds blistering one hand and watering can in the other. Har, of the sound hair, either that or Har-, ongoing with further sounds he hadn't caught.
The man had been very angry that night.
Wasn't he always, thought the boy, (just boy, because that gave him neutrality and freedom that his cupboard, with its porous, thin coverings didn't afford) angry at everything and all the world?
Angry, yes, angry, always. Just (just,justjustjustjust, helphelphelpme I think I'm going to die) especially at him.
He buried those memories. Nightmares were something he couldn't afford, the little boy whose whole world consisted of fear and pain.
Never hate, never. Once he hated, and fought back, and it was muchmuch worse for that.
The heavens were beautiful tonight. Sparkling, twinkling, unaffected.
Not pure because he didn't know what good things were. Not even of words and the peace that could be found in them. Like always and now, where he thought and thought of things up high, those singing things which could flee so easily, of black and blue and yellowish red, and didn't have a name for them.
B_ds, _arry, said a voice, and the poor little orphan looked for the gentlest voice he had ever heard and saw nothing.
