The House of Wolves ( boyxboy )

Preface

I can still remember the time when they told me my mother was killed. I was about nine or ten years old and I remember sitting on my grandma’s lap, listening to old songs by Billy Joel, Elton John, and The Beatles. My father wasn’t home, for he was away on some stupid business trip – the location never mattered to me, he was never home anyway, never is.

            No. Never. Nothing. Not. Can’t. I used – use – those words a lot. After the incident, I never had faith in myself, never gave anyone or anything a second glance. At first, I actually believed the fuckers who said it was an accident. But I thought to myself, how the hell could it be an accident if she was shot? How…how?

 I didn’t understand how you could accidentally shoot and kill somebody. To me, to anyone, that just doesn’t happen. You don’t do it accidentally. Nothing is made to be an accident.

That’s why these needles sticking in my arms aren’t an accident. That’s why me laying here in this tub filled with water, stained a pinkish red from my own blood, is absolutely not an accident. Killing myself, destroying me – it’s not an accident. It's simply an unanswered prayer, an unnoticed dream, a death wish so strong and pure that it could light fire to the sea. 

            I blame the human race for what they’ve done to me. I blame my father, I blame the atmosphere, and I blame the carbon dioxide and the pollution that runs through the air we breathe. I blame the hammers that fall on all the broken pieces, and I blame the painted walls, when two months in, the color creases and fades, giving off an ugly scene of death and hate. I blame my lips as they try to speak the truth, the sentences beginning in the middle, the middle coming to an end, and proceeding to halt at a start.

            Do you believe in God written on a bullet? Do you believe in Christ scarred into the wrists of the pale, innocent skin of a child? Do you believe in killing the voices in your head, making them disappear?

 Cause I sure, the fuck, do.

            “They didn't love their life so much, as to shrink from death. Inspired in their footsteps, we will march ahead. Don't be shocked that people die, be surprised you're still alive.”