I'm the Son of Rage and Love

Jesus lit himself another cigarette, staring at the smoky horizon. He wanted out of this town. He hated it. It wasn't the greatest place to live, and everyone knew it. The smell of factories lingered on you from living here. Low lifes were found on every corner; and Jesus was one of the crowd.

It wasn't like he didn't have a home to go to. He did. He just hated it there; so he tried away from his home as much as he could. His mom and step-dad, Brad, were always out. They always went to a bar and would come back drunk at any hour they pleased; or whenever they would get themselves kicked out of the bar. When they came home, Jesus tried to stay as out of their way as he could. Brad was very violent, with or without alcohol in his system. His mom wasn't as bad as Brad. She was the weaker one, so she wasn't violent. She would just yell at him, telling Jesus that he was a digrace to the family. But Jesus would suck it up the best he could, knowing that each time it would end sooner or later.

Jesus and his family were as broke as you could get. They were in debt and no one seemed to be wanting to change that any time soon. When his mom and Brad weren't at a bar, they were at home, drinking. They never stop. Jesus made a commitment to himself to never to turn into his parents. He did drunk once and awhile, but never to the point where he couldn't stand up straight. He saw how his mom and Brad act when they are intoxicated with that deadly liquid, and he knew that he would never turn up like them.

The street lights were starting to come on; and the marquees for stores were coming on aswell. The looked up at the 7-11 marquee. The white, green, and orange lights shone against his pale face. Most of the time he could be found at their town's local 7-11. The people that hung out there understood him anbd his background. He could be himself and no one cared what he did to be himself.

Jesus looked down at his arms, staring upon the various sized scars from his attempts to end his life. He watched this hands, that slightly shook, inspecting his cracked skin. He was cold, and his hands were making it obvious to eveyrone around him. But, he had no intention on changing it, for the fact he had nothing to help.

Jesus headed for the back of the 7-11, where the bathroom is. He opened the door and headed towards the sink. The walls were covered in graffiti; almost all of it was written by him. All around him, various words were looking down on him. He looked where somone had written "Home is where your heart is" and over it, he put LIE in big, red letters. Everytime he looked at that, it reminded him how shitty his home-life was.

He turned on the sink, watching the cold water come out of the faucet. He cupped his hands and let the water fall into them. He splashed the cold water onto his face and felt it soak into each pore. It woke him up instantly, making him feel better. He looked in the mirror to see himself. It was hard to see, from the years on dirt not being cleaned off, but he could. He saw his large, green eyes, surrounded by heavy black circles from deprived sleep, staring at themselves' reflection. He looked at the mark of his face showing Brad's rage when drunk. He saw his messy jet black hair, looking like it hadn't been washed for a few days. This was they way he always looked, and he wasn't planning on changing it any time soon. They way that he looked at people, was they are all full of shit.

He walked out of the bathroom and into the cold night, feeling the air brush against his face. He put the hood on his black, torn jacket over his head and began walking. He needed to get out of here. It was a living hell for him. Everyday he lived here killed him a little more inside. Nothing went good for him here. He had people who only talked to him for a joint, and then he came home to his mom and Brad.

Jesus stopped and looked up to the sky. Everytime he looked, he always wished God was right there, looking down at him. Yeah, he believed in God. He has always thought there is a God. When people ask him if he does, and he replies yes, they said it was obvious he did; beings as his name is Jesus. Jesus never really understood why his mother named his Jesus. He guessed she was probably too doped up on some kind of drug to give him a decent name. He hated the name, but, he kept it anyway. He always thought of his mom when he heard someone call his name. Even though he hated his mom, but it is the woman who gave birth to him, bringing him into life. But he always wondered what it would be like at home without him. Like if he was never born.

Staring at the sky, he yelled, "Are you listening?" attempting communicate with God himself. "I hate it here! Why can't you help me out here? All I need right now...is help. From you." Seeing as no one was going to answer him back, he headed home; to his own little hell.

When he entered the door, he smelled the odor of alcohol. He prayed silently that Brad and his mom were asleep. It was foggy inside the home, Jesus decided they took it upon themselves to smoke his last joint. He looked around silently. 'So far so good..' he thought to himself. But then he heard it.

"Where the hell have you been?" a drunken Brad slurred. Jesus braced himself. If Brad was going to go after him, he was going to try and run first.

"I was out," Jesus said, confidence in his voice. Brad seemed too drunk to actually get up and go after him, so Jesus walked to his room.

He opened the door to his room, the locking it behind him. The black walls of his room brought the mood down, but that was the way he liked it. He sat down on his bed and ran his hand along his black and white covers. He looked around his room, looking as though he had never seen it before. Everything was the same, and it didn't look like it was going to change. He needed to get away from this place he called home. He would leave. Leave all the lies and all the shit he's had to go through the last seventeen years. He would leave, and not look back. He'd have no shame. He would be leaving, and never be a victim of his mom or Brad ever again. And when he'd leave, he'd never apologize for going.

Something in his mind clicked, telling him that his idea was great. He would pack his bags with everything he would think he would need, and leave. And that was when he decided, he was going; and never looking back.