He watches them beg and moan about time moving faster, so we can all go home.
Home.
He sidestepped, twirled, and jumped to throw a paper ball in the trash. He wanted to be a basketball player, the best-of-the-best. He turned around and the class went wild with cheers.
He wanted to thank them with a smile but the bell had rung. Time to go home.
Home.
He walks outside to the parking lot, where different stories lie, waiting for his dad to take him home.
Home.
He watches his dad drive in-- in a matte black 2014 mustang gt500-- with tented windows.
He can't see those eyes, he owns them too.
He gets in the car wanting to go anywhere but home.
Home.
They stop at a light and his dad turns, he roars bullets and knifes. Oh, how he wished they were flowers.
Green light. To go home.
Home.
He breezes past the dead flowers in their front yard to the door. His dad follows behind him and unlocks the door. His dad comes in and locks the door.
He felt the horrors release and flew back against the wall.
Even though he knew it wouldn't work he pleaded, he pleaded all night long.
But he still remembers it; the way he was dragged from wall to wall. The way his eyes looked, he saw the way his eyes hallowed out and was replaced with hatred. The way he was forcefully bent over the couch.
That white couch, each memory was splattered against the fabric of the pillows, the leather on the armrests, against it all.
The way he screamed when he felt it.
In front of the couch was a mahogany coffee table. On the table was a vase with a lily inside. The petals ripped off, but one. One remained for the last venture. One he would succeed.
The way he was hit from the heart to the soul. The way he called out to the gods.
He wants to forget.
His last attempt, he tries.
A week later he has his last attempt at hand. A gun.
He walks home-- Home-- with the gun tucked foolishly in his boxers.
When he gets home he trains the gun to him with a desire to forget.
His father pleads, like he used to do, so he listens and turns the gun on himself.
He pulls the trigger with the desire to forget.
In a way he succeeded. But he met the end between that couch and his flower.
The End.
