It has been quite some time since he's last written—he hasn't had much to say the past few weeks as much has happened. His friends weren't as receptive as he expected them to be. They reacted with wholly disgust as their eyes laid bare onto his flesh—observing—twitching uncontrollably with emotions running rampant. Their tattered clothing was littered with holes from wear like flies, and their eyes darkened and dulled like rotten fruit. Their shoes were nonexistent—evidently from their barefoot figures rapidly approaching him. One of them gripped his collar and muttered a single phrase: "You are a disgrace," he shoved him aside. As he stepped back, they both turned away, meandering into the hollow darkness that stood before them.
He stood there, non-reactant to the whole interaction that had taken place only a few moments before—he had expected it. He had wholeheartedly prepared for this exact response, but it still cut deep into him. Being called a disgrace flooded his brain with memories he had spent with them. Those memories he had tried pushing back into the deep recesses of his mind. Their shared pain—their shared suffering—and their shared experiences slapped him in the face with the kind of force only a mother could deliver.
Oh, his mother—the woman who cared for him, fed him, and cleaned his diaper spotless—she wasn't here any longer. He hasn't visited her grave in over 5 years. Why would he? He was a disgrace of the highest order: He abandoned his ill father, his heartbroken mother, and his hospitalized brother. Why would someone like him visit the graves of his mother, father, and brother? He was a piece of work for all the wrong reasons.
He fled out the door, leaving behind a mother who begged him not to go, but he didn't listen. He left out that door with packed clothes and rations of food that would only last him up to a week—not enough time to accomplish his goal, realistically.
A punch slid off his cheek, staggering only an inch of ground to the male before him. The male wheezed, tired from the beating he was giving to the boy who had dared to step back into this place. His hair was receding, signaling his age as white hair had become more prominent since the boy had last seen him.
"You aren't welcome here," he said.
"I know."
"Then who's standing on my porch, knocking on my door, and asking to talk? We have nothing to talk about. Abandoning a woman in her time of need is a sin. I taught you that. What kind of deadbeat son does that? A—"
"—bastard. I know, Uncle."
"Don't get familiar with me now, runt. Those days are long gone—now scram. I don't want you sullying that man's name anymore."
"Father?"
"SCRAM!" He slapped the boy as hard as he could, the boy tanking the blow before being grabbed and thrown down by his uncle. Turning away, the male walked back into his house, wheezing tiredly before closing the door behind himself, locking it as well just to be sure.
The boy lay sprawled, staring at the stars above with spectacled eyes. He grabbed his glasses and stared at them, noticing cracks that weren't there before. Sighing, he placed them back on, walking away from the only family he had left.
The moon bared down at him as he faced the blades of grass and dirt beneath him as he walked through to reach the sidewalk. The concrete was cracked and ancient, Mother Nature reclaiming some parts of it while he clenched his hands pensively. He had no hope.
The only familial connection he had left wanted nothing to do with him—it was saddening, to say the very least. Where would he go? Not here. It was obvious why. People looked at him with disdain blaring from them like sirens, their words and voices filled with venom that directly stabbed him without mercy.
"You pest!" said one.
"You bastard!" said another.
They all had the same effect on him either way, no matter how elaborate the insults became. A torrent of emotions flowed through his veins, but he didn't allow them to consume and overwhelm him completely. He would allow only a couple of tears to escape, no matter how strong the urge became. Sobbing to himself wouldn't change a thing, but the desire to let out all his bottled emotions was stronger than he had expected. He knew things would have a plausible chance of turning ugly when he left through that door. However, the pure vitriol beating against him was something else entirely.
But he couldn't blame anyone but himself. He made that decision, that life-changing decision that left him in this predicament. He felt himself getting emotional. He hated that fact altogether. Why couldn't he accept the consequences of his actions already? Damnit, why is it so damn hard to accept?! He thought to himself repeatedly. With a closed fist, he thumbed his chest once, twice, and so on. He continued this action until his chest was numb with pain, accompanied by bruising.
He would have to accept it...