home sickness

Home Sickness1

I stood erect, staring ominously out my moon glared windowpane. My eyes flew into the skies, trying to see all they could see, but unfortunately this night their hopes were crushed. Why were their hopes crushed, did they deserve it as much I did? Yes that must be it, my eyes must also endure from my acts. For the clouds sheltered the night sky with their walls of abysmal shades of mauve. Even the moon's luminescence drowned in the skies, dark barriers. Why do I stare out my room window you ponder? Because unlike you, I do not have the glorious, priceless privileges of departure from my home. I mean I can not leave this place, not at this time, not anymore. My neglect from the outside world, has damaged me, believe me when I tell you this. For I have not left my house for a few years now, I'm terribly sorry for lying, it has only been a couple of months. It just feels as though it has been centuries since I've been detained in my own home. Think of it me, Jake, a boy of only sixteen confined in his own walls. But I guarantee you I am stable, I'm just a bit weary?Yes, of course just worn-out, I'll go to the comforts of my bed. Hopefully I may dream of the day when I can leave without trepidation.2

I saunter away from my only doorway of vision to the outside world, so I may gaze into another doorway. Though one that reflects myself, that reflects not only my face, or body, but my dark secrets forged inside me. Pushed in so deep, not even gods could come close to allow their own finger tips touch them. As I look at my reflection I notice my eyes, they were my door in getting into me. You must know that my eyes lie, and may  speak the truth. They are dark like the night, but as bright as morning day. They say they are mesmerizing, I say they are manipulative and shall always be. Then I look away from my face, of deceitful eyes, and dark hair to notice my tattered shirt. Still stained with that small round splatter of crimson, with a small circular tear in the middle. My pants just as old and worn, also with small speckles of crimson. I do apologize for I have not had the comforts of hot water, electricity, or even heat through this brutal, unforgiving winter. But once I've thought about this, it's just another form of my earned retribution.3

I finally then stare away from my reflection so I may slumber in my stiff, bitterly cold bed. Luckily only a few steps away from my mirror, since they stand next to one another. Unfortunately when I begin to lay down, I hear a knocking, a banging at my scarred wooden door. Her pounding fists against my feeble, throbbing door becomes annoying, but I do not wish to get up. "Go away!" I scream, panicking, holding my head tight between my rocking knees. You see I want the pounding to stop, because on every night since my misdeed was committed I have been plagued with another chastisement, one just as dreadful as being a slave to my own comforts of abode. The banging stops, I raise my head and grin lightly, feeling a crisp tear roll down my pale, white cheek. I smiled too soon, the hammering on my door starts again. Becoming goaded, I go to get up to open the door. My door slams open, and there stands my drunk mother. How do I know she is drunk? I could tell by the look on her face, the hallucination in her eyes, and the smell, no, the perfume of heavy vodka that festered around her. "Why will you not leave me alone mother?!" I scold in hatred, fear, and love. She laughs, the scent becomes more noticeable as she opens her mouth to speak.4

"Because what you did to me Jonathan. My mother states, her snickering follows. However you see, I am not Jonathan, for that was my fathers name. You must know that he walked out on us many years ago, because I was born. Such a selfish sacrifice to leave the one you love because she is giving birth to your own flesh and blood. Although maybe he knew of his sons shadowed secrets, before those unholy events occurred. Yes, it all makes since now. But then again, it was his own mistakes that created me, am I not correct? I must apologize again, I did not wish to interrupt with aged tales of sorrow. Though you see, my mother sees him in me, supposedly the devil takes on many incarnations. As you can see her hallucinations do not end there my dear friends. For what she does next is pull out that harsh weapon, that may kill instantly. Truly an act of man, for once ago the slower the death, the more pain involved towards one's victim was more pleasurable. Although now, what kills faster is more convenient. No man knows what they want, and I sure did not want what's going to happen next. "You left me Jonathan, you deceived me, now it's your turn to see what it feels like to be in pain." She rants icily, then pulling the trigger. The gun goes off and tears a hole in my torso, I stare down at the hole which allowed the claret water break from my prison of ribs. Then I look up just to glare into her hurt eyes, but then I realize that she is the enemy. She is what did this to me, so the I shoved my once loving mother away from me as she reaches out and then I purely say.5

"I'm tired of your drinking drowning me in my own bereavement, for an actual caring mother who will once let go of her damaged past for her own son." I avow, though I regret those words. For I may have pushed her just a tad too hard. My eyes widen to absorb the truth, for she then flips over the balcony of my upper level rail and falls to the bottom floor's stern timber floor. I do not see how she declined, but I do hear a disturbing snap. It was surely her neck, or maybe her fragile spine. The tears flow progressively downwards off my cheeks, they eventually come down in packs. I grab my mouth to hold back my sobs, my anguished cries. I stagger over with the other hand over the aperture in my chest to look over the balcony. Her body laid there, her neck bent into what seemed to be a ninety degree angle. I killed my mother. What is left is not fresh skin, or the scent of alcohol. But the aroma of death. My mother's skin now bone, glazed with her putrid meat. Her once clean clothes, now has tears and also crimson stains. I assure you my friends though, she'll be knocking at my door once more tomorrow.6

You see I have not left my home because I am too afraid of the punishment I might receive. Believe me, the outer world would be more callous then my own domicile. Do tell me you concur with me when I say my house is my only armor against such a deserving sentence. I mean there is no such thing as being home sick, right? 7