Camp Camp One-Shots

hiraeth

TW: mentions of child neglect, starving and animal abuse. Tell me if I missed something

Ship sailing: none

-

h

iraeth
/ˈhirˌīTH/
noun
noun: hiraeth
A deep longing/homesickness for a place that is no more.

Max wanted to go home.

From the very first day that shitty bus had dropped him off at this god-forsaken camp, he'd wanted to go home.

He'd wanted to go back to his room. His air conditioning and his functioning toilet. To his simple bed and shitty posters. He wanted to go back to the wood flooring that never creaked, and faucets that were fixed right away when there was a leak. He wanted to go back to wifi, and TV and radio, for god's sake.

He wanted to go back to his cat, Oma. She was old and evil but she always knew how to love Max in the best way possible. She knew when to snuggle up to him at the end of his bed or when to let him cry into her fur.

He wanted to go back to watching horror movies in the living room. His teachers always gasped when he told them just how late he's allowed to stay up.

He wanted to go back to the ipod he'd gotten from a box of his dad's old shit and the phone his mom gave him when he was five "so you don't bother me."

He wanted to go back to what he knew. A life of solitude and unsupervised schemes. Sure the food was virtually the same but at least he knew the shit at his folks house wouldn't kill him by accident.

He wanted to go back home.

But home didn't exist. Not anymore. Maybe it never did.

Home was where he hid in his closet every time his parents got into a screaming match. He'd bundled up, hidden away behind his laundry basket with the same shitty iPod and some earbuds he stole from a kid, volume on its highest setting to drown out the threats and sobbing.

Home was where he'd have to run to his Oma whenever his dad got angry. He wasn't the most polite guy but he refused to put his hands on his family, lest people suspect something is wrong. So he'd take it out on the stupid old cat, kicking or scratching or sometimes just straight up yelling at her. If he couldn't find her, he'd just resort to punching a wall or getting drunk.

Home was where he stayed up for hours and hours, watching movies he shouldn't  have in the empty living room, the house barren and quiet after both parents had stormed out, no clue when they'd be back or if they'd come back at all. The screams on the TV distracted him from the lingering screaming in his head.

Home was where he'd go without food for days at a time because his parents didn't feel like cooking him anything and he wasn't allowed to use the stove or microwave. He'd get cereal, if he was lucky, but the milk was almost always expired.

Home was where his father always looked at him with boredom, where his mother never looked at him at all.

Home was being alone. Home was being holed up in his room all the time because no one, not even his parents, liked him. Where he'd spend time planning scheme after scheme, something so sneaky and impressive that his parents would have to acknowledge him. Just once.

Home was never home. Home was jail and Max escaped, though not willingly.

So then he was gone.

And thrown into Camp Campbell.

Where the counselors were nice, but annoying.

Where the food looked untrustworthy at worst but at least they never skipped a meal.

Where the kids were...eccentric, but better than some of the people he used to know.

Then any ideas of home were destroyed the day his parents didn't come to pick him up. They had called so many times, but the line always went on and on, never being picked up, before going straight to voicemail.

So now home was David.

Home wasn't his bedroom, but a guest room they were slowly turning into his bed room. It was decorated with newer shitty posters and pictures of people he actually wanted to remember. The walls were hoodie blue and he never failed to relax in the space, even when it was littered with clothes and toys.

Home was where the food was warm and fresh. Where he never had to worry about going hungry. Home was where the pantry was, stocked with his favorite chips and trail mix.

Home was right in front of the fireplace David explained he had to have. Snuggled up on a bean bag with a blanket over his body and Mr. Honeynuts in his arms. Home was where quiet music or podcasts or rain would float through the atmosphere, never failing to put Maxs' mind to ease.

Home no longer has Oma, who was nowhere to be found when they went back to the abandoned house to collect Maxs' things. Home was where he was allowed to grieve, openly crying for the occupants to see. Home was where he was held while he cried, longing for the one sense of joy he used to have in his life. Home was where he was allowed to feel that.

Home was where his shitty old ipod stayed shitty and old, but the music got happier. Instead of painting pictures of a life without love, they sang songs about belonging. About waking up and not regretting it. Home was where he'd pop his new, not stolen, earbuds in and sit at the kitchen table doing homework, sometimes getting help if he was stuck.

Home was where the garden outback held a tire swing just for him. Home was where you took off your shoes at the door and left them next to the others in the shoe pile. Home was where there was a shoe pile. Home was where he invited his friends after school, grabbing snacks and playing video games before staying for dinner.

Home was where the smiles were warm, the atmosphere was soft and the laughter seemed to be never ending.

Home didn't have screaming or hiding or starving or fear or sadness. Home had family and friends that valued his existence. That smile when he appears and wishes for his return when he leaves.

Home was freedom with every rule and curfew and grounding. Home was where he learned what a home was.

Home wasn't always perfect but it was never prison.

Home was home.

His new home..his real home, was exactly what he'd been missing.

-

1103 words