Where are we at, and where are we going?

The old man licks his lips and buttons his flannel. He rests his hand over my shoulder.

“You done good, boy. You done might nice. Might nice,” he mutters, adjusting his lapel. The old man rubs my arm, then works his way down to my wrist. He squeezes.
“Tell your parents, and I swear to god, I’ll cut your throat,” he whispers, silent, stoic and steady.

I put my head down and wipe a tear. “Yes, Grandpa,” I say.

When he leaves the basement, my brother walks in, as is common when we come over.

We cry together. He tells me it will be okay. I know it won’t. I shrug. He tilts my chin. There’s an unnatural gleam in his eye.

He can’t see how years of being planted with the seeds of corruption have permeated to his soul. But, I do. He pats his lap. I shrug. My vision turns black. Several days later, I remember I’m almost 8 again. I want to be the very best, like no one ever was, but how can I ever be when I have to live with what is me?

A kid stares at me on the bus. Does he know?

I stare at my hands and curse my parents because god only exists for normal people.

I’ll never be anything more than what I am. The soulless remnant of a child who never was in the shape of an adult who just wants to be.


Haven’t read the first entry in Mark Figueroa’s “The Cloak of Nothing” series?

Check it out. You’ll receive more than you lose. Share it with your most mindful friends.

Equivalent exchange of my effort for your entertainment.

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