Going Home

I am walking to the station to catch a train that will take me home. The wind picks up and blows my baseball cap from my head. I try to retrieve it before it bounces onto the train track but it falls into a puddle, murky and filled with refuse. My head receives the large raindrops falling from a dark, brooding sky. All of my earthly possessions fill the small backpack slung over my right shoulder.

My last $100 is tucked safety inside my jean's front left pocket. I knew enough to not put my cash in my backpack having lost my wallet after arriving here a year ago full of dreams and innocence only to become victim to the destitute homelessness that roam this city like cockroaches in the dark.

I learned much about myself and gained street smarts and survival techniques far beyond my 17 years. I also learned that some sacrifices are vital to stay alive on the streets. I patted the knife in my left jacket pocket to assure myself it was still there. I knew where to strike an attacker swiftly to extricate myself swiftly and I am not hesitant to draw my weapon in an instant. Even my stance has changed in this year away from home.

Going home is the last thing I planned on doing when I left home last summer. My feet feel like lead in my disintegrating boots.

Part 2

I think they've gone," Marie said, her head turned, her breath hot on my ear.

I wonder if Maria would still be alive when my feet set down at the town of my birth. Maria never struck me as strong or resilient. She acquiesced to every command of my stepfather and did his bidding without question. I was the black sheep because someone had to fight his dictatorial demands. When Mom was diagnosed with cancer I tried everything to get her out. Stuart clamped down hard on the house finances and ruled us like a military camp. He was a retired marine who was dishonorably discharged in 1980. Mom said he lost it with a man in his unit beating him to an unrecognized pulp. The man lived, but was discharged as a disabled veteran.

No, I don't relish returning home but the letter in my pocket burns with Maria's plea for help. I have to try and now I am prepared to fight.

Part 3

The red mark on his face looms in my memory. Maybe it signifies his weaknesses. He received a bullet that grazed his face and somehow he lived through that. I wished a thousand times it had killed him and spared all of us his homecoming. Maybe Mom would still be alive if he hadn't.

The train ride home prepared me mentally for the inevitable confrontation. Five long, grueling hours on a train next to a man who smelled like his last bath was a month ago. I breathed into my sleeve a number of times to prevent the overwhelming need to vomit when he shifted in his loud sleep.

When the train arrived it was past midnight and no one greeted me at the gate. I used Uber to call a ride and after 20 minutes a man with dark, long hair pulled up. He didn't speak but played some weird Trance music the whole way home, tapping the steering wheel in an annoying manner.

My old home sat in the dark, an imposing austere figure. The door stood accusingly and I felt a creeping anxiety as I stood staring up in the dark.

My key opened the door, surprisingly. I felt sure he'd have changed the lock. When I stepped into the hall it echoed of Mom's voice in the kitchen and tears fought to release from my guarded eyes.

No one was awake and I tiptoed upstairs to Maria's room. The door was ajar and her bed unmade, but it was empty. I stood quietly uncertain inside the room. The picture of me, Maria and Mom still sat by her bedside.

A loud thud shook the wall and I jumped, backing into the dark. Maria let out a wail in the dark and I pulled the knife from the pocket of my jacket more sure than I ever was before.

SRC

This is a freewrite from @mariannewest using today's prompt Weekend Freewite
Find new daily prompts and join in with @freewritehouse for opportunities to win Steem Basic Income weekly!

Posted using Partiko Android