Suffocated

⚜️17 ⚜️

My thoughts are a whirling mess on the way home; and I am unsuccessfully trying to concentrate on my driving.

I remember my past now. Very damn clear.

All the drugs; adrenalin has been wiped out by one spirit.

Two years of trying to get out of the hellhole I had been living in had left me exhausted at the age of seventeen.

I know who it is. The spirit. Maybe it's a hallucination.
But I know it's not.

I concentrate on the steering wheel and try to blank out my mind.

But this time I cannot. All those memories of the first fifteen years of my life resurface again.

I can remember everything as clearly as it were yesterday.

The small dreary town at the south western tip of New Zealand. Robèrtville it was called.

It gave me a feeling of claustrophobia; the small town which was like a crime hub.

I couldn't escape it to go to a big city; due to lack of money.

I remember the town clearly.

The small dingy cold train station as the only mode of transport except bicycles.

And then right next to the station after crossing a narrow bridge- The Lair.

I used to call my house The Lair. It never felt like a house to me ; it was just like a place I slept in.

It was illegally constructed; a mere few metres away from the rocky sea coast; but no one really cared.

The weather in Robèrtsville was always cloudy; rainy and cold.

But nothing there was as cold as compared to my life; which I couldn't escape from.

***
I sigh loudly; and pull into the parking lot.

Forget about it now; Mist. You are in Manhattan. You are living your dream.

I try to control myself; but I know that I am not "living my dream" right now.

Well at least after that woman troubled me again. And prevented me from suicide.

Three times.

I take the elevator and reach my apartment.

My house. So unlike The Lair.

My mind flashes back my past suddenly; and I remember it again.

The dirty grey stone building; a.k.a The Lair.

The place in which I was born.

It had three rooms; I clearly remember.

The narrow; damp entrance led into a ill ventilated room which reeked of bodies and cigarette smoke continuously.

The straw carpet. The dirty springy; moth holed sofa; where my parents...

I gulp at that word. Parents. I have not thought about it after that fateful day. Ever.

.... where my parents used to sit drinking and taking weed with their gang. I remember a person who was close to my parents in the gang clearly.

Drearence his name was. He was a big; bald hefty man never seen without his cigarette. Another of my sins.

The second room had an uncontrollable stench of rotten cheese and decaying bodies; and was full of mould. No one ever used that room except me. For sleeping.

And the third room; where there wear iron hooks. From which the dead bodies hung; congealed blood dripping on the tiger skin carpet.

Haha. I almost laugh at the memory of the dirty; blood - streaked tiger skin carpet belonging to the tiger my father had killed.

Well; that hobby was completely wasted; I think.

Because later my parents returned to killing people and hanging them on hooks; and ignoring that their child which was conceived due to a mistake still existed in this world.

* * *

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