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Soul's Hole
A blank sheet of paper is that of a newborn child. You may think that you are able to shape, mold, form, and decide what you wanu the outcome to be. Every word taught, every lesson learned, every mistake to be had, all your choice. Every line is to build upon the next, serve its purpose. Much like the people in your child’s life, all is known then and there, the type of life you want your child to receive, the experiences you want him to learn, the ones you don’t; that is not your choice, your decision, your call. Why must everyone but him dictate how he executes the twenty-four hours he must live through to make it to the next and sort out the ramifications of the days of the past? Why must everyone treat him with little dignity stealing away his self-awareness? Has he that little of importance? Has your interest waned over the years? If a child cannot grow up sustaining himself how will he sustain you of late when your decrepit self worth has past its due?
In his room late at night he lays awake. Why is there a need for sleep? When I sleep a dawns coming arises, maybe if I don’t sleep it will not come… thoughts of past long haunt him. He employs himself in activities you think would give him a use, relieve his head. He assures himself that an untrained eye could not have seen better, he ells himself that he has a use and he helps. No prevail. None at all. Holding back all of his thoughts he has destroyed his bloodstone. With no emotions what use is it? If emotions were sleep then you would no his need for such. Years have long since been forgotten when he remembers something. With a childhood of memories to be filled by others he contemplates but little of it with the exclusion of why he wrote little, spoke much, and heard nothing. If it was one thing he has learned throughout his years it was how to hear but not listen, look but not watch, speak but not converse. What purpose would they serve him if he would not listen?
Another age of coming approaches and another day begins. Nearing his mirror he asks: What is the point of alteration in the day? While it may be a different calendar day nothing else will be different. Finishing up readying himself for school which he wakes much too early for he sits himself down. Minutes come and minutes go like the people he has met in his years. Only one has remained by his side, sadly even his foreboding darker self has been forever trying to flee his side. Jumping from place to place, home to home, he has come to expect to stop unpacking his things. The question has been poised when he will reveal the contents of the one unpacked bag that contained his possessions minus the staples of life. When he answered the fear of another escape crept into the far desolate corners of his caretakers that only cared about preventing yet another escape. He has tried before and he is getting much better at losing the trail but they also are getting much better and finding it.
It was the third part of the year he had served living at the home, it was also was his third home he had been in ten years, his parents were murdered by a three-hundred pound Six foot Eleven inch man. That was what the police report had read. He knew otherwise however. In the beginning he liked the idea of living with a big family of brothers and sisters that came and gone. He seemed to withdraw himself from them however when they would gather around and take part in ‘play time’. During the first four years he had no regard for knowledge he was most often the center of attention with his cracking bat that pierced the air. The latter four years however was when he came to realize the purpose he never once had. It was when they were out on a field trip to a park. When the group arrived at the park and the chaperones had been assigned what to do and whom they should watch that he saw the cemetery he remembered so many years before.
When they laid that azoic body into the ground he did not yet know what it meant but he heard him say it. He knew this poet from an earlier meeting. He often did wonder if his head ever sat right again and why he was running in boots and jeans. He asked this to himself because he grew of intrigue as to why they had met. He only saw him twice in his life. When he learned what this ‘azoic’ word his poet used he too felt like a lifeless being. Jumping from home to home, employing his self in meaningless activities and just going through life withdrawn from everyone. He once again asked to himself: Was this what he was going to do from day to day what happens when your eighteen and removed from the home because your were never adopted. They just say have a nice life and release him legally, why can’t he just run and you lose the papers? Having learned what this word meant he also was interested to learn the meaning of other words he did not understand but heard others use in sentences also containing his name.
He asked that he could see the papers about himself and the police report but to no avail. They explained to him that it would not be a good idea because the pictures are rather graphic. It was also at this time that he started sneaking around at night and borrowing keys from the different employees of the home. Knowing little about the other kids of the home he observed he one carefully to see how they acted, whom the interacted with, and most of all the rivalries. It was at the end of the week he decided to finalize his plan. He noted the secretary put her car keys into the top drawer of her desk while the keys to the records room was in another drawer that was locked. This key however was worn around her neck. The last thing he noted about her was the clasp was a click together. Really easy to take off. That evening he snuck behind her. As she drank her coffee, he reached around and took the key without her noticing. He was skilled at this because the one friend he had that left taught him the art of pick pocketing.
That night when the staff that was not needed for the weekend went home he snuck out of his room. During his week of observation he noticed the guard in his hallway and the main lobby both took their break at the same time. During this time he took his only chance and snuck into the main lobby. Unlocking the desk drawer containing the records key he quickly retrieved the key and went into the records room. File cabinets lined the walls and each was labeled: Police Records, Transfer Records, and Psychological State Records. He took the time to look through each cabinet that contained his name and stole every single one of them. He had time to do this because the guards had an hour-long break. As he looked into police record he looked at the sheet that contained his record. It was not neat but every crime contained the same sentence: Charged with fleeing Orphanage. He had fled this place many times. As well as others. This is why he transferred so much of the late years.
Tonight had to be the night he did it. Setting all of the records back into place and locking the door behind him he left the area as it was before he came but not after the key was put into the drawer. Walking back to his room he unpacked his bag and took his baseball bat that never changed throughout the years he had lived. He knew that all of the exits except the one used for smoke breaks had alarms that would sound if tripped. He also took another possession of his, a wind up toy. Opening the window would not trip the alarm it was passing through a light beam. Winding up the toy and positioning it so that when it walked it would walk off the window and trip an alarm he set off to the smoking area. He settled himself into a position that would not be detected when the alarm was sound and all of the sentries posted them selves to their position. When the alarm sounded and everyone ran to their position he snuck out the door and left the orphanag... for good this time.
As he reached the end of the gates and saw that the night patrol was just dispatching he went outside of the monument he had chosen to call his home… after all home always was where he laid his head at night. Effortlessly climbing a tree he soon found himself a tree dweller for rest that night. Rest, now there was an idea. What would come of finally achieving closure? Would his empty soul be filled with joy to the point where he no longer needed to affix himself to the ironies of the human kind? Or would other be wrought upon his troubled psyche? Waking in the morning he set off to retrace his steps to the cemetery he had taken many years before. As he neared the cemetery he saw an acquaintance from the past. It was one whom he thought never knew the satire of his life. As their eyes locked he realized that true indeed, he did know his satirist life, he had that weighing on his head every night as he laid down to sleep. He too came for closure. It was at this time he had brought closure… only to open yet another file.
