H O M E
"If you change the way you look at things, the things you look at change." ~ Dr Wayne Dyer.
//The words in Italics are extracts taken from 'The twelve' by William Gladstone.//
Wesley wiped a tear he sat in the back seat of a taxi. He watched the street lights rapidly passing by as they speeded on the road. It was early morning, around 4:30am or so, the sun a few minutes shy from shining with its glorious light beams. An old country song hummed in the background, his breath following the faint beats playing in it.
Max knew from the beginning that there was a purpose to his life and an important destiny that he had been called upon to fulfil.
His gaze turned towards the piece of paper that he subconsciously crinkled in his right palm. It held the words that would guide him home. That place where he always longed to visit. The place which held so many stories that it was overwhelming for him. That place that he once left behind, in order to seek happiness. Freedom. But today, he was headed for that very same place. Why? Was he strong enough to face the consequences?
There was a voice in his head that spoke of a reason for which he had been born, yet there were no words-just colors and powerful vibrations. His inner world, this secret playground, was filled with beauty and elegance, and it made Max very happy.
Wesley always had an impeccable imagination. His world consisted of people and characters that one cannot find in this world. At least in his small one. These people held stories and emotions that one cannot quiet decipher. But he held these people in his mind, had full-blown conversations with them. And things actually made sense to him when he did. These voices guided him to find beauty and tales in things. They supported him when he felt down. They took places of people in his life who he would never meet. They guided him to see life in the non-existent. They guided him to bring them to life. All throughout his tender childhood.
Yet he knew one thing; he was alone. They didn't actually exist. They couldn't be seen or touched. They could just be heard and felt. Emotionally. It was always him and his mother in reality. And both of them were warriors battling in the mental wars in their heads. It seemed complicated for him. This period. He was mentally drained and frustrated with the constant struggles and loneliness he had to deal with. He started failing to see things he could see and feel before. That's when things changed.
His house, the previous one, wasn't the best place to grow up in. Screams, cries and frustrated sighs boomed in the decorated hallways all the time. The tension in the house was overbearing. The lights dimmed the moods of everyone who stepped into the house. The air was stiff. But it was always called a home. Absurd isn't it?
From the moment of his birth, Max accepted that wherever he was, he was exactly where he was supposed to be in life and was completely at peace with the idea.
Although, at the back of his mind, Wesley always craved that mess he had in his life. He missed the screams, cries and frustrated sighs that boomed in the decorated hallways. He craved that overbearing tension. He hoped for the dimmed lights to illuminate his life. He wanted to breathe that stiff air. He wanted to go home. Again, absurd isn't it? How such a place can be longed for? By that very same boy who once ran away from it all? For happiness?
Wesley let out a small sigh as he recalled how he managed to steal this small little paper. He pulled it out from his mother's dairy. She always wrote in it every day. He mentally face palmed himself as he realized that his mother would now know where he was headed off to. Shaking his head in disappointment, he huffs and crumpled the paper and tossed it aside. Resting his head on the head rest, he closed his eyes as he ruminated, as usual.
Harold would take some time to recover. And he knew that he couldn't do much about it. He felt small pangs of guilt about leaving Harold behind. He was also guilty for borrowing Harold's wallet. Well, he had to pay the taxi guy in some way. He vowed that he would make things better. But his mind was muddled with anxiety, guilt, curiosity, relief, confusion, worry and most importantly, the stack of unanswered questions. To put it all in a nutshell, he was massively screwed. And that was not good for our boy.
"How much more time will it take again?" He lifted his head from his current position. His voice sounded a little groggy.
"We are almost there actually." The taxi driver looked at him with his pitch black eyes. Wesley got lucky, I guess. What are the odds of reaching a place so close to the where you want to go. Especially in such a big place.
"You really don't remember your old house huh?" He raises his eyebrows at him, a little astonished. Wesley clearly looked like he came a long way. Look at it this way. A teenage boy wearing a worn out, tear stained shirt which smelled like beer and cheap tobacco, dark circles hanging from his bloodshot eyes, his cheeks covered with pubescent stubble, frantically came out running out of a hospital early in the morning only to nearly get hit by a taxi in the middle of the road. Yeah. Totally normal.
Ignoring the question the man asked him, he turns his head towards the window. His heart beating faster by the second. Was he ready to see his home? What would it be like? Would it be like? Would he be able to feel what Harold felt? How should he have been feeling? How was he feeling? How would he feel? Is this happiness?
He couldn't understand what he felt about the weather. It was pleasant, but not quite like that. It left him anxious. It reminded him of those days when his mother would just sit on her old wooden chair outside their small house, holding her small mug of tea in her hands, brooding the evening away. Her red maxi dress flowing with the semi strong winds, her red hair flowing into her beautiful eyes, and she not bothering to push them away. She was probably thinking about her past. Present. Future. Life.
And despite his inherent inclination to be optimistic, Max found that the constant attacks began taking their toll. He never felt safe at home.
Wesley followed his intuition. He lived by answering questions he asked himself. But today, things were different. His intuition died slowly as he stepped out of the taxi that nearly ran him over. His thoughts shushed as they met the memories of the past. His breath hitched as he breathed in the same stiffening air that he craved for. His questions were left unanswered as he paused his life for a moment. Yet, the step into this abandoned house through the door was the biggest step he had ever taken.
He looked around the dark house. There was nothing. No furniture, no well-trimmed flower pots, no scattered toys, no Italian music that always played while his mother was cooking, no father reading the paper, no little girl playing with her dolls, no grandparents arguing about some file they lost, no nothing. He couldn't even see any plates been thrown in frustration, no cries of that small little girl, no sighs of disappointment, no frowning foreheads, no guilt, no regret, love, hate, happiness, nothing. Wesley stepped into the house. In the corner, he saw a faint figure. Someone sitting cross legged, his head resting on his hands that were placed under his chin. He just stared at the living room. Looking lost. Wesley walked through the small kitchen, tracing circles on the dusty granite platform, looking at the small holes where small pans and wooden spoons hung as decorations. His fingers then traced the wall that ran along the old cracked wooden staircase. Tracing each and every shape drawn with small crayons, trying to relive the stories they told. He smiled slightly, he never drew on the walls. Lacey was the Picasso of the house. And that left him thinking about her.
What would she do if she was with him?
So many unanswered questions.
He walked into every room, looking at the empty walls in every room. They looked so different without those framed photos. Each room now lost their character. Every room looked so different earlier, now they just looked like plain wooden rooms. Small, empty, orphaned. His den , too failed to give him a smile, or a reason to smile.
Wesley slowly walked down the same old wooden stairs that he used to fall from quite often. Turning left, he walked towards that faint figure he saw before. Sitting down next to that figure, he resumed life; the questions rushing into his head, leaving him slightly lightheaded.
Was this what he wanted? Was this the big thing that had to give him happiness? He subconsciously knew that coming here was all it was all about. He wanted another chance. Was it worth it? Definitely. What was he expecting? His father sitting in the corner of the room, smoking a cigarette, looking out of the window, waiting for his only son to return and forgive his father? His family?
As the attacks increased, he seriously considered ending his life in order to escape his tormentor.
At the age of seven, Max contemplated to stab himself in the stomach with a butter knife. While in his secret, inner world, he had seen the potential for his existence and was excited for the possibilities that lay ahead, the outer world presented him with a very large, unavoidable obstacle.
His decision made, Max picked up the knife. Yet as he pushed the soft-edged blade into his tummy, he remembered the quiet, inner voice from early infancy. So he put the knife aside, realizing, in that moment that he had a purpose- a true mission- and even though there might be obstacles in his path, he would have the courage to face whatever came his way.
Wesley had his moments of suicide. The time when he looked back towards his house, thinking about going back inside. The time when that drunk man kill himself. The time when he thought about death that very same day when those lights came towards him, those small dust particles dancing along. The time when he saw his stick float in the water peacefully. The time when he saw Harold's teary eyes blissfully closed. The time he was a second away from telling the taxi man to turn back around. The time when he asked himself if he should step inside his childhood home.
Wesley looked to his right to see that small figure he sat next to. It was a small boy wearing a striped red and white shirt. His beige trousers were a little too long for his short legs. His hair fell on his forehead. His dimples emerging as he pressed his lips together in disappointment. His head moving from left to right as he moved his hands underneath. It was him. It was Little Wesley. Looking at nothing. Thinking about everything. Who knew that ten years later, Little Wesley would still be sitting in the same place, thinking about the same things.
Wesley smiled slightly at this faint figure. Maybe things didn't really change.
Wesley looked back at this dusty old house. He smiled, unable to stop himself from thinking about the things that could have happened if he stayed. He would have been just waking up from bed. His mother singing along to those same Italian songs that she never understood, while making the family some breakfast. His father sitting by the window, reading the newspaper ads and telling his wife something 'useful', but she of course, wasn't listening, as usual. Lacey, anxiously waiting for Wesley, she of course, always ready on time for school, because she was perfect. And Wesley, galloping down the stairs like a horse, but, as always, falling from the third step, head first. Followed by shaking heads, sighs and evil giggles.
But this didn't leave him feeling upset. He felt different. Maybe that was how his mother felt on those days, sitting on that wooden chair, sipping her hot tea, her hair flying in her face. It didn't feel bad. It didn't feel great. It... was just there.
Wesley stared through the same window that he wished his father was sitting by. The sun finally came out. The faint figure next to him slowly disappearing with the light that lit up his home. His childhood home. It was just him. Yet, he wasn't alone. He was with someone. He was with comfort. And it felt satisfying. Very satisfying.
He continued to stare at the window, a small smile forming on his face. He liked smiling. It felt like forever. And then, he heard a familiar voice.
"Wesley."
+++++
Time: 6:30 am.(I think.)