Cursed Wanderers Series

Book 1: The Family Curse

Chapter 1

The Genesis of Delirium

I NEVER UNDERSTOOD how people could fall asleep in buses. I do get that when you are traveling hundreds of miles at a steady pace, the bus sort of lulls you to sleep, but I’d never be able to fall asleep beside a stranger, leaning my head against them, like the old lady beside me is doing, practically drooling on the only sweater I own. Especially considering the fact that I’m skinny as a stick and my shoulder is definitely not a soft and comforting place to lean on.

            But then again I do have a rather untrusting attitude towards anything that is human or that walks or crawls or breathes, hell I’d even mistrust a tree if I felt like it was staring at me for too long—okay I totally ran away from a tree for that very reason but whatever.

            Anyway, my schizophrenic tendencies aside, the point of this is, I’m in a damn bus, with an old drooling lady that smells like stalled Indian food and dead cat—the dead cat smell came when she slipped her feet out of her shoes—I’m hot as hell but I can’t take my sweater off because I have an old lady leaning against me, I’m still far from destination—or at least I think I am—I haven’t eaten in god knows how long—well that’s not true I did pick an untouched quesadilla still in its box on top of a garbage can, beggars can’t be choosers, yesterday—and if I had a gun in my bag I would be going on a rampage, no doubts.

            I sighed in defeat and almost pressed my forehead against the window beside me but automatically backed up when I realized how dirty it was—few squashed bugs with trails of their gooey insides, countless greasy finger stains, some unidentifiable clear greenish substance that might actually be snot to be honest—serves me right to pick the cheapest bus ride.

            Shoot me in the end with a nail gun and don’t clean the mess afterwards.

            Good thing there’s actually a purpose to this torture because otherwise screw the gun, I’d make do with my nails, a fucking plastic spoon, hell, the old ladies shoes would probably work miracles...

            The reason is, I just want to know why. It’s what every kids that have been abandoned by their parents wonder; why? And how? How could they abandon me, why did they abandon me? The countless hours I spent in therapy all concluded that in order to move on with my life I had to find a resolution to this fatal question. By saying that they meant I had to deal with my own shit, but seeing as I don’t do meditating and finding my inner peace in solitude bullshit I decided to instead track down my family, grab them by the collar, shake them a little and demand an answer.

            It took me three years to raise the money by questionable means to be able to afford someone not brain damaged to do the research. They were hard to find. For some reason it feels like they didn’t want to be found—ain’t that too fucking bad for them? Those fuckers ain’t gonna get away with abandoning me and not having to deal with it. If they couldn’t deal with a kid they shouldn’t have had sex to begin with!

            Deep breathe, count to ten. One… two… three… four… five… six… seven… eight… nine… ten…

            Fuck this, I’m still angry!

            Anger management, another useless therapy and a waste of the public funds if you asked me.

            It would be ridiculous to deny I have serious issues… Maybe I could’ve had a better attitude towards all of this, maybe I could have found my inner peace on my own if I hadn’t been thrown in the hellholes I have.

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