Andrew

Photo by Jose Rago on Unsplash

I know this table. This floor. All of them I know too well. Or I knew.

This is the house in which I lived throughout my early life. Home of me it was for the most delicate moment of my development. I owe as much to this house as one can owe a non-living-material entity. I have even come to think I owe more to this house than to plenty of living-material entities. That’s why I bought it last week.

My new home gracefully sits on the #2585 of Whitefield Road and Del Rey Avenue, in Pasadena, California; a beautifully unremarkable moss green house with the all-American white wood fences and doored-windows. It just waits there, timeless, like an old friend, but one that is certainly rancorous of having been forgotten by me and my parents. And now it’s just me. My dad? Dead. My mom? Daycare. Home? Lone for 28 years, time which I am sure counted every second to the atrocious looks it gives to me. I must also confess mom has not been in a daycare for 28 years, but when I was 14 and we had the chance, we fled to San Francisco. We fled from the beautiful wooded streets of Pasadena and to the big city.

I studied economics in the University of California San Francisco and then moved to New York to work at Goldman Sachs as an investment banker but for some reason, for all those years I couldn’t forget of what we left home. What I left home. And the image of this haunted me repeatedly. Santa Claus.

We were given this piece by a group of friends who had travelled to Canada en which said it was hand-made; you could still feel their hands all over the piece, almost smell the fresh spray paint they used on this beautiful doll’s face, alongside the very fine brushes they used for the small details; black oil-paint with varnish on top. And so it glows magnificently, sitting on a side table next to the largest sofa of the living room, which faces towards a large window and onto the street.

I have put lots of thought to why it is this precise doll that catches my attention above all else, and I have come to the conclusion it is for the times of turmoil my family was going through while we fled for, as I have precisely spelled, we didn’t just leave Pasadena, we fled, and in the hurry of that fleeing, this small doll, alongside most christmas decoration we had placed for the holidays, which were just around the corner, stayed there, forgotten.

I have feelings for that.

It is like me; not only for it is not the only thing I know that has been forgotten by people that would have otherwise be deemed trustful and caring, but for in a way it also forgot us, and aged with the house and only came back to my bed to haunt me, and as such we are alike, for I have not but forgotten a great deal of people throughout my life and surely haunted them. Just like I did to you, Thomas.

I wish I would have been there a bit more. And I know you won’t read this anymore. But someone will and in that way I might be held accountable, towards you, me and God.

I remember.

I do remember and it hurts.

You were a pretty man, but you were hurt and I couldn’t understand.

I loved you for so long and it was great. My only scape from the fast and chaotic life of the jungle. I knew you all too well and you knew me, too and, at times, I felt like you were the only person that could understand me. I loved you so much and felt like there was not but you; precisely the issue and that I hid since I had just gotten married. But our thing was beyond that, and we both knew it. I loved you and gave you myself, and so you did but, we should have never, it should have never happened.

I played by the book and look at me.

Despicable is any book that tells man how to be if not himself.

Great wife, job, loft, and car. But what about the heart. That I couldn’t understand and left what I shall to myself drift outside me and towards others, and I that I killed being myself and turned into a self for them and part of them. And I hate myself for that. And you were smarter than me. You always were. So now I come to you, asking for forgiveness. Truth be told that I did to you wrong for not accepting you and I were all there is. I tried hard to kill you fro my life and it backfired.

I wish you wouldn’t have hunted yourself; the prettiest neck in town.

All gone now!

All dead now!

And only with you can I be happy, now, yet not know; only can I be happy then. The past is all that’s left. I never understood that once you give everything to someone and then he leaves, you do with him.

I have been barely existing.

I might just close it now, but this book already end it long ago.

I stopped living when you did.

Please take me then, God. Take this faggot and burn it in hell. The deepest parts of it; I will be burning and agonizing, but the real potty be to you that create men to your image, just as wicked.

This rope is you, Thomas. And I go to you.

Don’t leave like I did.

While my guitar gently weeps.

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About wicked people, from one of them

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Felipe Acosta

Felipe Acosta

Writing stories; code, literature.

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