Stained from Fine Wine

June 19, 2019

I saw a man at the grocery store today. He resembled someone I knew. He had the eyes of of a soul I had lost nearly twelve years ago. It pains me to say his name because it was I that let him go.

Mrs. Wilson-Channing

ONE

Graduation was the one last thing I wished to go through but it was the finale to a worthless chapter of my existence. After my farewell to high school, I had nothing to positively reminisce about. Those four years were haunted with continuous fright. I wanted to be normal but never wanted to do what normal people did. I was a born outcast. That was simply who I was.

On the eve of Thanksgiving, I felt the sense of genuine happiness. Why? I don't know. I nearly spoke to the first person since 1st grade, when a man held the door for me at the grocery store. Instead, like myself, I nodded and forced a smirk. At midnight I went on a discoverable walk alone to internally conversate where my life was going and what was happening in my head. It was definitely something worthy of practicing daily. Suburban neighborhoods, ironically, made my skin gripple itself. It was unwelcoming and tense. That bristling night, it exceeded my skepticism. I walked past a lit up mansion with the front drapes wide open. There was a distressed couple arguing like fire fighting gasoline. The man began to throw vases at the woman, striking her mindlessly. Their son sat in the corner covering his hears with fright and dysfunction filling his face. I began to walk faster away from the house until the man pulled out a silver revolver and shot her twice in the chest. He turned and stared at his son. "Goodbye," he fumed. He pulled the trigger and it echoed throughout the entire block. My heart dropped to my feet. I could rarely think to believe my eyes.

"Oh my god! Call the police!" a woman screamed at the top of her lungs. She assumed it was me, despite the obvious fact of not having a gun anywhere in reach. I sprinted as fast as I could away but it was too late. Two police cars raged at me, stopping at my knee caps. They busted out of their vehicles and pointed their guns at my head.

"Get the fuck on the ground!" they screeched.

"Cuff him!" one officer shouted. They lifted me up in handcuffs while the surface of the neighborhood was filled with shameful faces and folded arms peeking out of windows. What were the odds of this happening to me of all people?

Throughout the ride to the police station, I asked myself hundreds of questions the police could and would not answer. I would do what they asked of me as long as I did not have to speak. I was affirmative of that.

When I was eight years old my grandpa, Gerald, died of AIDS. He was the only person who had patience for me. He taught me how to ride a bike in Kindergarten and he taught me the values of life at a very young age. The three years I remember being with him were sacred and something I never could take back. I loved him. Since he died, I felt as if my words were not meant for such simple and rude people in the world. My foster mother bashed me for it until I was a sophomore in high school. That was when she finally understood I was not like the other kids. She told me that my mother died but never said of what. I was curious but not curious enough to realize that I was still an orphan inside. I wrote her a heartfelt letter about my beliefs, fears, and general thoughts. One key phrase I mentioned was "I love you but you aren't ready to hear what your son thinks about this world."

The officers asked me for my name multiple times but I blankly stared at them as if I did not speak any language. They became angrier as they asked me. After a half hour of harassment, they finally got me into the orange jumpsuit and pushed me into a cell. I thought about my whole life leading up to that miserable moment. It all hit me at once. Why am I here? Where is my real mom? Is she really dead? Why have I not gotten over my grandpa's death? Will I ever discover my inner self fully? The whole night I broke down into tears asking someone to tell me answers.