Wretch

A crescendo of shouts. A horrendous symphony. Amidst it all, dry coughs that sound more and more uncontrollable at each turn.

“Leave.”

There it fell. On the steps of a house, squashed into the outskirts of a city. A small, shining raindrop, reflecting in the dark. Alone. On the curb of a house that used to be his home. Tears streamed down his face, as the clouds covered the once beautiful night sky. With no one and nothing to turn to.

Why? A simple question, supposedly. But at each step he took, his heart burned more and more, as he struggled within himself, mourning his loss. Why? He’d thought he’d done everything right, he’d thought that his efforts to make up for his folly would help, so why?

And, with a cry of some fox or hound which inhabited the night, he awoke. He knew the reason. He understood what he truly was. He knew the truth. He was disgusting. No, more than that. He was a Wretch. A monster, who had almost killed his father.

He didn’t deserve joy. He didn’t deserve hope. Love? Care? Life? It’d probably be best if he didn’t exist, wouldn’t it?

So, why was he still living?

A red and black thread encircled his mind and heart. His soul, suffocating.

In the midst of the congested city, he sat, muddying his tattered clothes, as he contemplated his failings, on the unfeeling pavement.

Sleep evaded him. One, two, three hours passed. Insomnia, a great addition to the unending list of problems this boy will now face in the months to come. Does he deserve that? Probably.

But, as he closed his eyes, the burning in his heart shifted to these windows to the soul. Red and black threads spiralling within them.  And now, finally finished lamenting, the Wretch wanted to search for it. Atonement, if a Wretch like him could sinfully dare to search for it.

2 years have passed since then. And what had the boy done? He had become something more. The way he walked, talked, acted. He had been born again, and this new creature was wholly unlike the last. Supposedly. But, as much as he had grown, as much as he had changed, one thing remained clear in the midst of it all. Guilt. More than that, in fact. When he saw himself in the mirror, or in a photo, he didn’t see a young man with a stunning future. All he saw was a child, within whom lay the darkness of self hatred. The red-black thread remained around his neck, the yoke of the enslaved.

And so, the child, who’s eyes spoke of nothing more than self loathing, turned up on the same doorstep on which he had found only regret. Knock, knock, knock.

Time passes, before the door creaks open, only for an unfamiliar face to poke her head around it. Though he didn’t recognise her, looking at the scar on the right side of his face, her eyes swiftly widened.

In a fleeting moment, she vanished, leaving the door slightly open, and with her frantic shouts, supposedly for him to step inside. But, his feet, pulled back by this malicious thread, wouldn’t dare even twitch. As the winter breeze swept down the street, making everyone with a mind to go or stay outside feel nature’s ice cold kiss, he could do nothing but remain. A faint rustle here, a collision there, the boy hidden with the confines of age showed no sign of moving inside. As fixed as the moon above, never able to approach the sun’s radiant entrails. But once again, a woman’s unfamiliar face poked round the door, abject confusion dancing across her face.

“Do you not want to come in? It’ll take me a while to find it?”

“N-No.”

“Please? She’ll get angry at me if you don’t.”

“She?”

“I assume your mom.”

Starting to hyperventilate at even thinking of her, he breathed out, “Where is she?”

To that, she was silent, as she pulled the door open, inviting him to enter in earnest, To which, he hesitantly replied.

And there, in a place he knew all too well, he sat. Looking around in this beige and brown coloured living room, which flickered between the now and the past, one eye seeing the peace that was now within, and another seeing his own hands wrapped tightly around his father’s neck. One ear hearing the quiet whisper of the wind through the window, the other listening to the screams of his fear stricken mother. A tear-a glistening raindrop, began the onslaught of a wave, an unending wave of sorrow, out of his torn and broken heart. Words of apology, of gratitude, of sadness and pain, drawn out from the wellspring of despair. But in the end, one word, one phrase shot through his head.

Unworthy

Unworthy of love

Two knocks were heard, in the midst of this pain-stricken outcry, and quiet soon came. He turned, in his moment of weakness, to a letter, left on the floor, as swift footsteps darted away.

He reached out. Opened it. And soon after, jumped to his feet and began to run, shouting out a word of thanks as he launched himself out onto the street.

The legendarily mad drivers of time past would smile in the prisons that hold them, as the black Audi dashed between cars with reckless abandon. It was a miracle that he could see through the tears. Until he could no longer. Spinning round a corner, swerving out of control, with the light of a lamppost flickering and filling his vision. Crash. Unstoppable, a wellspring of sickness erupted, and for a long moment, all was black. Coming to, with the sounds of voices filling the world around him, his singular purpose grew stronger. 3 heavy kicks, and he rolled out onto the street, shoes covered in unmentionables from his stomach. And with the shouts of the many behind, once again, he took to his feet and ran, pulled by a string of blood and black. Right to the white doors of a tall and wide building. A hospital.

“Mrs Spears? 3rd floor, ward 7.”

In the lift he went. Heavy breathing, eyes glazed over.

Softly calling for her, like a newborn baby wails for his mother.

The door slowly opens, as he makes his first tentative step. And another, and another. Out into a world of white. Men and women pushing and pulling beds, sharply discussing, wiping heads. Tired. He couldn’t see this. His one focus ever calling him. Calling. Calling.

Did he talk to the receptionist of the ward? Well, if a conversation involved just saying a single name, you could call it that. But as she pointed down the hall, his eyes locked onto a white door.

He lifted his arm to knock. But it wouldn’t-no-it couldn’t. The black and crimson thread pulled, with all its monstrous might, on his arm, keeping it just an inch from the door. He then went to speak, desperate, wholly desperate. But that self-same thread wrapped itself as a noose around his neck, a python of fear and hate that spoke a simple thing.

Unworthy

Unworthy of love

The boy knew. He knew he couldn’t disagree. So, with harsh breaths, as if the air itself reprimanded him, he turned. Until he heard a voice.

“Hello? Sorry, I just heard some intense breathing, so I was curious.”

A woman stood in the crevice of the door; her eyes glazed over with a pale grey.

“Please excuse me Mrs Spears; it’s been a tough day. I’ll be on my way now.”

There was a pause, as the boy began walking away, as the now fully blackened thread pulled him far away. But the woman only smiled.

“Is that my idiot son?”

A pure blue thread shot forth, tearing apart the one born from 2 years of guilt, making him swiftly turn and look back, to hug the one who had nurtured him from birth.