The deafening boom of the thunder from outside my window. The hectic flashing of lightning mixed with the rushing of the rain floods my mind as I try to catch some decent sleep. Apparently, here, that’s impossible. Where is here? Great question, but my guess is as good as any. None of us know where we ended up, exactly, but that’s because nobody gave enough sh*ts to tell us. To hell with them, I say, we can figure out where we were spat out. That’s just the thing, though, nobody cares enough to give us lost souls a little context or even some information regarding our whereabouts. So until then, we’re just lost, simple as that. I wish I liked the idea of being lost, no way home, but that’s the problem, I’ve always had a fear of getting lost or even left behind. As a child, my mother left me in a store, and I was brought home by my father, just off of work. When we got home, my father and I found my mother sprawled out on the La-Z-Boy, the TV shining in her face. My father woke her while I picked up the empty bottles of Smirnoff off the floor and into the recycling bin, where to no surprise, I found freshly opened and emptied bottles of Jameson No. 7s and broken shot glasses in the trash can. I walked back to the living room, which smelled heavily of cigarettes and piss-stained carpet, our living room Scentsy doing no good whatsoever. I found my mother, much to my dismay, still on the broken-down recliner, and I woke her up, and was greeted with a brisk slap across the cheek, which left a bright red mark across my face. I knelt back down and I whispered to her, “Wake up, now, please.” And she breathed in my face, the smell of cheap whiskey and an assortment of other liquors on her breath. When I went to bed that night, she dragged me out of bed, bent me over her left knee, and beat me black and blue until I apologized, for what, I’m unsure exactly, but that was just the thing. She didn’t know why she was beating me, she just beat me to beat me. I still love my mother, don’t get me wrong, but I’ve always carried a certain chip on my shoulder for that sad drunk that happened to be my mother. Don’t feel sorry for me, it’s not your fault, and it’s not mine either. Don’t pretend like you care, and don’t pretend like you know what that’s like, to have a mother who never cared about you, even in your darkest days. She didn’t, by the way. She never cared, not once, not as long as I was alive, that’s for sure. So there’s my tragic origin story, and a very cliché one at that. One parent sucks and neglects us while the other tends to the neglecting parent and ALSO neglects us. Sound familiar? Name five characters in comics or movies that have an origin story similar to mine. The only trope I was missing was the dead parents trope. Luckily for me, my origin story became even more trope-filled after my parents died. Both of them. At the same time. They were murdered in their summer home in their sleep. My life is going swimmingly, isn’t it?

I was given flowers after they both died. That’s it. Some flowers, some horribly made cards, a few hugs every now and then, but nobody cared for me. Plenty of people cared ABOUT me, sure, my parents were rich, but I had nobody to care FOR me. There’s a massive difference there, believe it or not. After they died, I wanted to die myself. I didn’t think I could live in a world without both of my parents, my only family, and it turns out I couldn’t live without them. Physically, yes, but not emotionally. Regardless of how sh*tty my mother ended up being, she was still my mother and I still had a soft spot for her, I promise. Why am I making promises to you? Yet again, another great question. I needed someone to talk to, that’s all. It’s lonely in this ghost town we’re stranded in, even if we do have each other. I suppose I just needed to talk to someone on the outside, someone who wasn’t stuck here. I wonder if you know who I am? Wait, what if you aren’t getting these letters? It’s actually not that big a deal if you aren’t getting them, it’s not like I’m spilling my guts out to you, you know? It’s whatever. I don’t care. 

                   .......

I awakened to beads of sweat dripping down my forehead and all down my bare back. I feel the cold sweat dripping down further when I walk to the shower and disrobe. I can’t handle the feeling of sweat sticking to your skin and clothes. I throw those in the hamper, which seems to be overflowing with clothes I have yet to clean. Fantastic. Just what I needed for this already perfect morning. I turn the hot water knob in the shower and I step in, way too tired to function at this time of day. I just stand in the shower and let the hot water rid me of my nausea, along with all of my inhibitions and regrets.  Afterwards, I put on a new pair of jeans, and I dug through my pile of shirts. I picked one up and put it on. It was an old Led Zeppelin shirt, from one of their concerts from ‘77. It smells like sweat and is sun-soaked from all of these years of being worn. I walk out of my house, and I’m greeted to the light of the sun, beating down on me like the lights from Heaven itself. I take quick glances around, and all realization hits me like a bus. I’m still here, I think, and I start walking, where, I don’t know where, but I walk, and I walk alone. I hear shouting coming from across the city, but those are so far away, I don’t pay them any mind. I’m just stuck, I’m trapped in my thoughts, nothing bothers me, nothing makes me lose focus from my mindset. My insomnia struck me again last night. I was lucky to have gotten a few hours of sleep, and that’s all I could ask for anymore. I’m just expecting the worst to happen as I walk through these barren streets, the loose pavement crumbling under my feet, the brisk breeze cutting through my hair, the sun’s heat beating through my skin, and in the center of it, me and all of my trauma. I continue my walking down the street, more yelling. I just keep walking through all of the abandoned neighborhoods, through all of the shouts of parents and the playful yells of children. As I pass old, abandoned storefronts, something catches my eye. I walk into the old bookstore, dodging shards of broken glass, looking around for any items of value left behind. I continue to walk through, scanning the shelves, when I stumble across a back room. I attempt to open it, but to my dismay, it’s locked. I peer into the window that is conveniently placed next to the door of the room, and find a safe, preferably filled to the brim with cash and gold. I start looking around for something to open the door with, but I find a dictionary instead, and it just happens to be a student’s edition, too. Hardcover, easily 1,000 pages in it, nice and thick. The lightbulb finally goes off, and I chuck the dictionary into the window that looks into the back room. I stand several feet away from the glass as it shatters into a thousand beautiful pieces. I stand in absolute shock and awe as the realization of access to the back room has sunk in. I walk into the room, making sure I don’t brush the shards with my hands. I walk forwards to the safe, and I attempt the code a few times, but obviously to no avail. I decided to walk out of the room and back onto the street, but something caught my eye. It was a bookshelf, and while I saw it outside, being close up helped me notice the fact that the wall was hollow on the backside of the shelf. I grabbed the bookshelf by the side that was facing me, and I pulled it towards the door, and sure enough, there was another room, and inside of this one, there was a ladder leading down underground. I crawled down, with much caution, of course, and there was yet again another door. This one was unlocked, so I opened it and was greeted with a foul smell, one I have never smelt in my entire life. I kept pushing forward, something was pulling me toward the smell, even if I didn't want to discover what the origin of the scent was. One more door, this one too was unlocked. The smell was worsening, now, and I walked cautiously but quicker so I could discover what I had been looking for as quickly as possible. There was one doorway, no door, at the end of the hall, not conspicuous at all. I enter it, even more cautious now, and I find the source of the smell, the reason I have been miserable ever since I entered that hall and climbed down the rungs of that ladder.