There was an old man
who the neighborhood spoke of in whispers;
his house on top of a hill,
isolated from the city
full of temporary pleasures
and ill-wills.
Classmates dared me
to trudge up the climb
to see if the truth
could be brought to light.
I searched and searched,
but could not find him-
the old man who lived on top of this hill.
I remember walking down the steps,
back home,
to warmth,
and to my sibling sleeping.
At precisely 11 at night,
I snuck out into the dark
hallways of a house that was now unfamiliar.
I peeked through a door and watched my father
gaze longingly at a photo.
The next day, I took a journey,
up the hill, through the woods,
and to find a house in the early morning.
It was kept in perfect condition-
ironic to the haunted mansion
described in those ridiculous stories.
"Hello, anyone there?"
"Don't take everything I have." A faint answer said.
"Why would I do that?"
"Everyone who comes here had done all that."
"I'm coming in."
"If you do, don't be surprised.
I'm not the most pleasant host for you to be recieved."
Soon, I was sitting in the same room as the subject
of my classmates' jeers,
of all their 'satanic' cheers.
He was not terrifying to say the least-
what kind of malice
is behind those kind green-gray eyes?
He asked me about my intentions
while serving some green tea.
I told him that I was curious
and then he smiled as if it was familiar
or...was it relief?
I asked why he would settle on a place like this-
over-looking the city and damned pricks.
The old man smiled, amused.
He said that his husband would've loved the view.
I asked for a reason for his isolation.
He answered in a resignation.
He said that he had lost so much.
So much that he loved.
The next day, I went back to him-
now thinking of his home as a sanctuary to let loose and live.
He told me stories being caged,
enraged,
beaten,
and slain.
The old man had a sorrow in his heart...
something I didn't understand;
much less know where to start.
Another cup of Earl Gray tea,
another story of tears,
another effort to forget the pain,
another scream at the storm and rain.
Next morning, I was slapped and spat on.
I ran up the hill
to my only friend and companion.
He welcomed me in his residence
with a handkerchief and a blistering irritation.
I told him that it was okay,
he grabbed my shoulders and looked at me.
I felt safe.
The next story he told me was about a girl-
his sister and one of the main reasons he had to live.
He told how she had been killed
and that her grave stands on this mighty hill.
I prayed for her peace and salvation.
He showed me a photo
and I dropped my tea,
the girl was my mother
and this man is her unbiological brother.
