The Struggle Is Real

♤four : ash♤

♤four : ash♤

Laying in the rough, scratchy hospital bed for the second night in a row killed me. The smell of death filled the air. The building itself reeked of it, though the employees tried so hard to cover it with the imploring stench of bleach and anti-infectants. I didn't want to be here. I wanted my family. To be with them, talk to them. Unlike before, I would cherish the moments we spent together. I would care! About them. Nothing else. I would love, laugh, and live. So would they. But none the less, I would never get them back. I had no siblings, no parents, no house, no money, no stuff, and no heart. Along with everything else, my heart had turned to ash in the fire. Without anyone to comfort me except the little teddy bear that said 'get well,' I was miserable.

I think he was faking it.

The teddy bear didn't actually care!

What a fake, delusional, idiotic son of a - God, I wanted to get up so badly.

I was telling myself a teddy bear was fake.

Ha!

I'm such a pathetic loser...

Really though, deep inside, I wanted to do one thing. Go home, sleep in the ashes if I had to. I just wanted my old life back. I didn't know how far I was from home, or the ashes I wished I could call home. I just wanted to go home.

I will never want something as bad as how strongly I yearned to go home on that evening. The blinds crinkled against the frame of the window in the city breeze, filling me with sadness. The realization set in as I thought about how I was stuck helplessly in the city, not in the country where I belonged.