Everlasting Consciousness

Stained

Eteocles walked up to the porch of the house he was raised in. All the memories flooded back to him in a rough current. His eyes widened and his breathing became shallowed. He was right in front of the door, sweat dropped off his face like bullets. He slowly raised his hand and touched the handle. The coldness of the handle sent shivers up his spine, making him take a quick intake of breath. He slowly turned the handle making sure it did not create a single sound.

He stepped inside, the interior never changed since last time he was inside. The cream colored walls, the couch in the corner, the recliner of which his own father sat in. He was unsure of whether or not to call him 'Dad', after all he has put him through. The lashes on his back, the bruises he hides day in and day out, the gash on his bottom lip. All of which were caused by him, the demon in disguise.

He looked around, taking small steps to avoid detection. The smell of mold penetrated his nose, making it curl up in disgust. He took a closer look around, and saw that the house was kept in less than adequate condition. The wallpaper peeled, and the floor was littered with clothes.
He walked into the kitchen, which was not any better. The sink was cluttered with plates, and the fridge emanated a strange odor of which he could not define.

He walked over to one of the drawers, and pulled out a knife. He stared at it, his own reflection staring back at him through the blade. His face was pale, his eyes were black, and his hair was tussled in all different directions. He never thought it would come to this. This blade would be going through his own parents flesh, cutting, tearing, shredding their insides. He threw the knife back into drawer and ran, ran as fast as he could. Out of the house, out of the neighborhood, out of the city. He ran, and ran, pushing himself forward, even though his legs were threatening to give up.

The woods were always comforting to him. Always quiet, always peaceful, always at rest. He went out here to often cry in desperation, to scream, to just get away from his life. But whether or not he went here everyday, or just for 5 minutes, he would always have to return to his own personal hell.