Status: The story is not supposed to end here. I wrote this five years ago and I am now 17; quite unmotivated to pick up writing it again, but we will see. hold on!
Hearts Recycled But Never Saved
We're coming home again.
Was this the right place? I had some flashbacks of things what had happened in that house. It looked familiar to me. Just behind the old, ugly, huge "Welcome to Jingletown, USA" - sign.
Dragging my feet after me, I walked up to the door. Knocked it mechanically.
Ten nervous seconds of waiting was an hour to me. Eventually, someone opened.
The woman had small, brown eyes in absent expression. But the color was just the same as mine. The entangled, reddish blonde hair reached her shoulders.
"Can I help you?" said her bored voice.
I stared at her. Wasn't I familiar, the way she was familiar to me?
She started staring back. She had discovered something.
Mom's eyes got flooded of tears.
"Why for so long?" she said thickly. Her hand searched for my chest and touched it carefully. As if she couldn't convince her self that I stood there infront of her, alive.
She acted like in ecstasy. Like the entire world was already against her, a long lost son to fight was what she needed less than anything.
"My boy."
I hated to hear her say it, I hated to see the look on her face. I hated myself for running away, and I hated myself for returning.
"My boy", she repeated, biting her lip to avoid the tears. The strange way her lips moved told me that she was speechless.
After staring at each other for ten more seconds, she stepped aside from the doorway. I silently walked inside.
Things hadn't changed. Every single silly little ornament was still there, at the same place.
Mom made a weak gesture to the same old couch in the filthy living room. The table in front of it was full of old piled up plates, rottening junk food, stains and dust.
Unwillingly, I sat down. The look of the room from there felt like a dream more than reality; a very realistic dream. I must have felt that dream for a long time, because suddenly mom stood in front of me, carrying a tray. There was only an empty cup on it.
"There", she said stupidly.
"Where's Brad?" I asked, backing up from the tray that mom had protruded.
Her face started blazing violently.
"Jimmy!" she barked. But there wasn't only anger. There was despair and frustration, and sorrow. "Just shut up, you get that? Shut up, I fucking wished you were dead on the streets! Did you hear that?" She lowered her voice to a whisper, and continued; "You've got the face of an angel, Jimmy. And the personality of Satan."
Her lips trembled, that old look that was so familiar, whereupon she rushed out of the room. I could hear her sobs echo in the bare hall.
Furiously, hating myself, hating her, hating Brad, hating this house and hating the streets, I kicked the table aside.
"YOU'RE A FUCKING WHORE!"
The cup broke, but I kicked again. Mom started whining loudly.
"I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU!" she repeated, as I saw her rush through the hall again, pull on the familiar old coat, as she, still screaming, smashed the door behind her. I ran to the window and watched her run, as if death itself was hunting her, up the street.
My natural instinct of such situations in this house was to run upstairs, and through the first door on the left. And so I did.
I pushed the door to what still was my room, and immediately a smell of old, dirty socks, rotten food and sewer hit me.
"Ugh!" I spontanely shouted and covered my nose with the sleeve of my black sweatshirt.
No one had been there for ages. It looked just like the day when I had left home. Everything was covered with a thick layer dust.
I sat down on the stinky bed and sifted the room. Nothing special. There were no posters or pictures on the walls, which made it feel bare and leafless, just like all the other rooms in the house.
I bent down to open up my secret hatch in the floor. It was from the beginning just a loose board of the floor, but later on it had become my treasury.
I stuck down my hand and fished up a bunch of old letters and photos. Memories came back to me. The last time in the house, I had only written letters to anyone who would find me, because I felt like only walking alone, round and round in my room. Loneliness had made me go insane. I opened one of the envelopes.
Slowly, I picked up a knife, needles and packs of things that I decided to turn my head away from.
I remembered leaving them behind, wanting to start up something new.
But I had failed.
Dragging my feet after me, I walked up to the door. Knocked it mechanically.
Ten nervous seconds of waiting was an hour to me. Eventually, someone opened.
The woman had small, brown eyes in absent expression. But the color was just the same as mine. The entangled, reddish blonde hair reached her shoulders.
"Can I help you?" said her bored voice.
I stared at her. Wasn't I familiar, the way she was familiar to me?
She started staring back. She had discovered something.
Mom's eyes got flooded of tears.
"Why for so long?" she said thickly. Her hand searched for my chest and touched it carefully. As if she couldn't convince her self that I stood there infront of her, alive.
She acted like in ecstasy. Like the entire world was already against her, a long lost son to fight was what she needed less than anything.
"My boy."
I hated to hear her say it, I hated to see the look on her face. I hated myself for running away, and I hated myself for returning.
"My boy", she repeated, biting her lip to avoid the tears. The strange way her lips moved told me that she was speechless.
After staring at each other for ten more seconds, she stepped aside from the doorway. I silently walked inside.
Things hadn't changed. Every single silly little ornament was still there, at the same place.
Mom made a weak gesture to the same old couch in the filthy living room. The table in front of it was full of old piled up plates, rottening junk food, stains and dust.
Unwillingly, I sat down. The look of the room from there felt like a dream more than reality; a very realistic dream. I must have felt that dream for a long time, because suddenly mom stood in front of me, carrying a tray. There was only an empty cup on it.
"There", she said stupidly.
"Where's Brad?" I asked, backing up from the tray that mom had protruded.
Her face started blazing violently.
"Jimmy!" she barked. But there wasn't only anger. There was despair and frustration, and sorrow. "Just shut up, you get that? Shut up, I fucking wished you were dead on the streets! Did you hear that?" She lowered her voice to a whisper, and continued; "You've got the face of an angel, Jimmy. And the personality of Satan."
Her lips trembled, that old look that was so familiar, whereupon she rushed out of the room. I could hear her sobs echo in the bare hall.
Furiously, hating myself, hating her, hating Brad, hating this house and hating the streets, I kicked the table aside.
"YOU'RE A FUCKING WHORE!"
The cup broke, but I kicked again. Mom started whining loudly.
"I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU!" she repeated, as I saw her rush through the hall again, pull on the familiar old coat, as she, still screaming, smashed the door behind her. I ran to the window and watched her run, as if death itself was hunting her, up the street.
My natural instinct of such situations in this house was to run upstairs, and through the first door on the left. And so I did.
I pushed the door to what still was my room, and immediately a smell of old, dirty socks, rotten food and sewer hit me.
"Ugh!" I spontanely shouted and covered my nose with the sleeve of my black sweatshirt.
No one had been there for ages. It looked just like the day when I had left home. Everything was covered with a thick layer dust.
I sat down on the stinky bed and sifted the room. Nothing special. There were no posters or pictures on the walls, which made it feel bare and leafless, just like all the other rooms in the house.
I bent down to open up my secret hatch in the floor. It was from the beginning just a loose board of the floor, but later on it had become my treasury.
I stuck down my hand and fished up a bunch of old letters and photos. Memories came back to me. The last time in the house, I had only written letters to anyone who would find me, because I felt like only walking alone, round and round in my room. Loneliness had made me go insane. I opened one of the envelopes.
Slowly, I picked up a knife, needles and packs of things that I decided to turn my head away from.
I remembered leaving them behind, wanting to start up something new.
But I had failed.