American Eulogy

"Don't look at me like that." A young boy, about 14 years old, sat on the dirty floor of an old house. Not old as in vintage, the boy would've liked that. Old as in the place was falling apart. "Like what?" The question came from an older woman. She was wearing a faded pink bathrobe and smoking a cigarette. She stopped smoking long enough to smirk at the boy. "You have this sick look on your face, like I'm the loser." The woman stood up and squashed the cigarette under her foot. "What, so I'm the loser? That makes you the son of a loser." Her tone was mocking. The boy couldn't take much more of this. "Don't you get it? You are the loser! You sit there with your stupid scratch-off lottery tickets saying 'oh, today! Today EVERYTHING will change!' It's never going to change! You're never going to win!" The woman leaned over her son and took his face in her hands. "You think you're so high and mighty, king of the neighborhood! What are you, the Jesus of Suburbia? Nailed to that floor, suffering for my sins?" The boy slowly stood up. He paced around the house, plucking up what few belongings he had. Then, he went over to his mother, and hugged her. Walking over to the hole where a door had once hung, he spoke once more to his mother. "I'm the son of rage and love. I am the Jesus of Suburbia." And with that, he left.