troops23
08-05-2015, 01:31 PM
Looking around the empty house. Wandering from room to room. The floor creaking underneath his feet in some spots. He sees crumbs on the floor, and dust in the corners. There are some plates in the sink, and laundry on the floor. His Xbox controller and a few pillows lie on the floor of the t.v. room, where he sat for hours trying to escape his reality for a virtual one. He stands there, looking around the empty house. Trapped and looking for a way out.
He goes through the motions of life. Working hard, when he is given work. Throwing himself into his job to avoid the chaos of his life. But it only lasts for so long. Soon work is over, and he has to go home. Back to the empty house. The prison. He stands there, in the driveway, looking at the empty house. Wondering why he's there, and why his life has brought him here. He goes inside to the empty house. His shoes clutter the front foyer. A pile of newspapers and mail stacked on the floor. The air conditioning running. The smell of home. He stands there, looking around the empty house. His prison of his own design.
He can never stray far from home. His family may be away for a while, but he has to stay close to home. In case work calls him. But what can he do ? He wanders around the main floor. His bare feet collecting the crumbs off the hardwood floor. He should vacuum. He pauses in front of his Dyson, staring at it. He shuts his eyes, looks down, and turns away. He stands there, looking around the empty house.
He lost his way some time ago. He can't quite remember when. He vaguely remembers who he was. He walks to the mirror in the empty front foyer, and looks. He sees a reflection in the mirror...but who is he ? The hair, he knows. Short, the way he had always liked it ever since he was a teenager. The nose too, always thought it was big. His ears still stick out like they used to, but sharp as a wolf, able to pick up the slightest sound, and conversations from sidewalks as he drove by in his car with the windows down. The face, it carries a 5 o'clock shadow, and a neutral expression. It borders on a scowl, to disinterest, to disgust, and rides a thin line towards fury and rage. The eyes though. The dark brown eyes. If these are the windows to a man's soul, he would need a strong flashlight. The eyes were dark, empty. Haunted and alone. Skeptical and distrusting. Eyes that could flash the coldest fury and look completely lifeless at the same time. He stands there, looking in the mirror, in the empty house.
The person in the mirror isn't him is it ? Has he truly lost his way ? Has he traveled so far away from where he wanted to go ? Tears well up in his eyes. He blinks them away in anger. Beating down the sadness. He turns away from the mirror, from the reflection of the man he has become. Something burns deep inside him. Fury. Rage. Anger. Hate. He clenches his fists. He tries to bury it, but it's too much. A primal scream erupts from his lips. It doubles him over, but it comes again. His rage, his anger, his fury....his sadness, echos in the empty house.
He stands there, breathing heavily. He looks around the empty house. There's no one here. He has no one. He doesn't remember who he was. He doesn't remember what he loved to do, or what he wants to do now. He's trapped in his own home. Locked up in a prison of his own making, with no way out. He needs somebody. But he doesn't know who they are, and is loathe to open up to someone. He remembers the pain. The pain of wearing his heart on his sleeve for someone only to have them stomp on it. He remembers writing. Pouring himself onto paper, expressing himself the only way he knew how. But he remembers that pain too, some more recent. He walks into the empty living room, and collapses on the floor. Alone, all alone in the empty house.
He sobs quietly. The buried pain coming to the surface. The frustration of where his life has taken him. His love for his family, and those he holds close to his heart whether they know it or not. He comes to realize that his prison is of his own making. He was an expert at building walls around himself, protecting his heart, and his fragile ego. His steps outside his walls led him to places where he thought he was safe. At times he was. He would get comfortable. He would form attachments. But then he would get too attached. He would begin to care, to love. And he would be chastised. He would retreat behind his walls, hurt and afraid...and angry. Always angry. He remembered how his now departed mom was so scared for him, trying to figure out why he was always so angry. The tears roll down his cheeks, as he sits on the floor of the empty house.
He had a purpose once. But he doesn't remember what it was. He has become so lost, he doesn't know how to find his way back. He needs to find his way but he doesn't know how. He found someone a while ago, She was lost too. He couldn't let her stumble in the dark, so he took her hand and guided her home. He wanted to be close to her, but he couldn't allow himself. He never believed in the metaphysical, thinking it was something that people told themselves to feel better about how fate treated them, but she changed that. Her aura soothed him. She brought a sense of peace and serenity to the chaos of his life. He had never experienced anything like it before. He was overwhelmed...with pure joy. He gripped her hand tighter for he did not want to loose her, and what she brought to his sad and lonely existence. He began to care for her. He cared for her more deeply than he ever thought possible. And he saw it in her eyes too, but he also saw fear. The same fear in his own eyes. He knew what it was. He knew...He had to lock away his heart for her, only ever showing her what he needed to, to keep her safe and on the right path. And now she was gone, and with it her aura. His joy turned to despair. Emptiness had its hold on him again. He wailed in sadness, in the empty house.
His tears emptied. He had nothing left. His body ached, and his head throbbed. His appetite had left him long ago. He stands slowly, and wanders into the empty kitchen. He stares at the bottle of wine. He drinks mainly out of boredom, and sometimes under stress. But he knows that, if he drank now, it would do nothing for him other than dull the pain. A pain that he would still have to face long after the effects of the alcohol wore off.
He stands there, in the dark and empty house. He's tired, but knows that sleep will not come easily. He wanders upstairs to his empty bedroom, and looks at his empty bed. He wishes he had someone here. He needs to hold someone, he needs feel close to someone. He needs to....feel. He crawls into the empty bed, and stares at the ceiling. And ever so slowly, sleep takes him into a lonely, dreamless state. He lies there, in an empty house.
He goes through the motions of life. Working hard, when he is given work. Throwing himself into his job to avoid the chaos of his life. But it only lasts for so long. Soon work is over, and he has to go home. Back to the empty house. The prison. He stands there, in the driveway, looking at the empty house. Wondering why he's there, and why his life has brought him here. He goes inside to the empty house. His shoes clutter the front foyer. A pile of newspapers and mail stacked on the floor. The air conditioning running. The smell of home. He stands there, looking around the empty house. His prison of his own design.
He can never stray far from home. His family may be away for a while, but he has to stay close to home. In case work calls him. But what can he do ? He wanders around the main floor. His bare feet collecting the crumbs off the hardwood floor. He should vacuum. He pauses in front of his Dyson, staring at it. He shuts his eyes, looks down, and turns away. He stands there, looking around the empty house.
He lost his way some time ago. He can't quite remember when. He vaguely remembers who he was. He walks to the mirror in the empty front foyer, and looks. He sees a reflection in the mirror...but who is he ? The hair, he knows. Short, the way he had always liked it ever since he was a teenager. The nose too, always thought it was big. His ears still stick out like they used to, but sharp as a wolf, able to pick up the slightest sound, and conversations from sidewalks as he drove by in his car with the windows down. The face, it carries a 5 o'clock shadow, and a neutral expression. It borders on a scowl, to disinterest, to disgust, and rides a thin line towards fury and rage. The eyes though. The dark brown eyes. If these are the windows to a man's soul, he would need a strong flashlight. The eyes were dark, empty. Haunted and alone. Skeptical and distrusting. Eyes that could flash the coldest fury and look completely lifeless at the same time. He stands there, looking in the mirror, in the empty house.
The person in the mirror isn't him is it ? Has he truly lost his way ? Has he traveled so far away from where he wanted to go ? Tears well up in his eyes. He blinks them away in anger. Beating down the sadness. He turns away from the mirror, from the reflection of the man he has become. Something burns deep inside him. Fury. Rage. Anger. Hate. He clenches his fists. He tries to bury it, but it's too much. A primal scream erupts from his lips. It doubles him over, but it comes again. His rage, his anger, his fury....his sadness, echos in the empty house.
He stands there, breathing heavily. He looks around the empty house. There's no one here. He has no one. He doesn't remember who he was. He doesn't remember what he loved to do, or what he wants to do now. He's trapped in his own home. Locked up in a prison of his own making, with no way out. He needs somebody. But he doesn't know who they are, and is loathe to open up to someone. He remembers the pain. The pain of wearing his heart on his sleeve for someone only to have them stomp on it. He remembers writing. Pouring himself onto paper, expressing himself the only way he knew how. But he remembers that pain too, some more recent. He walks into the empty living room, and collapses on the floor. Alone, all alone in the empty house.
He sobs quietly. The buried pain coming to the surface. The frustration of where his life has taken him. His love for his family, and those he holds close to his heart whether they know it or not. He comes to realize that his prison is of his own making. He was an expert at building walls around himself, protecting his heart, and his fragile ego. His steps outside his walls led him to places where he thought he was safe. At times he was. He would get comfortable. He would form attachments. But then he would get too attached. He would begin to care, to love. And he would be chastised. He would retreat behind his walls, hurt and afraid...and angry. Always angry. He remembered how his now departed mom was so scared for him, trying to figure out why he was always so angry. The tears roll down his cheeks, as he sits on the floor of the empty house.
He had a purpose once. But he doesn't remember what it was. He has become so lost, he doesn't know how to find his way back. He needs to find his way but he doesn't know how. He found someone a while ago, She was lost too. He couldn't let her stumble in the dark, so he took her hand and guided her home. He wanted to be close to her, but he couldn't allow himself. He never believed in the metaphysical, thinking it was something that people told themselves to feel better about how fate treated them, but she changed that. Her aura soothed him. She brought a sense of peace and serenity to the chaos of his life. He had never experienced anything like it before. He was overwhelmed...with pure joy. He gripped her hand tighter for he did not want to loose her, and what she brought to his sad and lonely existence. He began to care for her. He cared for her more deeply than he ever thought possible. And he saw it in her eyes too, but he also saw fear. The same fear in his own eyes. He knew what it was. He knew...He had to lock away his heart for her, only ever showing her what he needed to, to keep her safe and on the right path. And now she was gone, and with it her aura. His joy turned to despair. Emptiness had its hold on him again. He wailed in sadness, in the empty house.
His tears emptied. He had nothing left. His body ached, and his head throbbed. His appetite had left him long ago. He stands slowly, and wanders into the empty kitchen. He stares at the bottle of wine. He drinks mainly out of boredom, and sometimes under stress. But he knows that, if he drank now, it would do nothing for him other than dull the pain. A pain that he would still have to face long after the effects of the alcohol wore off.
He stands there, in the dark and empty house. He's tired, but knows that sleep will not come easily. He wanders upstairs to his empty bedroom, and looks at his empty bed. He wishes he had someone here. He needs to hold someone, he needs feel close to someone. He needs to....feel. He crawls into the empty bed, and stares at the ceiling. And ever so slowly, sleep takes him into a lonely, dreamless state. He lies there, in an empty house.