How Maddening

I never quite grasped the fact that my mother was inherently mad during the ages of my childhood, nor would I ever come to terms that I too would surmount to something that stemmed from being socially unacceptable or simply insane. I played around with the idea in my head a couple of times, but dozed off to sleep momentarily afterwards. No reason to let the idea grow maddeningly inside of my brain like a sickening manifestation of a malignant tumor. So, when I was orphaned at the age of seven, I did nothing but question fervently to my caregivers who often seemed too sidetracked or could fairly care less about my intruding outspokenness within their presence. A couple years passed afterwards, and from there I grew quite. I learned to keep to myself in the little confines of my straw bed.

Nearing the end of November, a cold front blew in on my ninth birthday. There were no presents to be given within an orphanage such as Kinstone, and frankly no one would yearn to simply give me anything for the fact that "Hooray, you're a year closer to death my young lad!" It seems that that is what all birthdays are composed of -- a sheer lie hidden beneath the film of fake happiness and surprised smiles. That night however, a sat and stared at the cold cement walls that seemed to obstruct my path to freedom, and cried my frail self to sleep.

The remainder of my years within Kinstone went by with a blur. Upon my sixteenth birthday, I had a girlfriend at the time, and she was quite sweet to say the least, with beautiful breasts and a optimistic outlook upon life; the sheer opposite of mine. It lasted for a total of forty-seven days and all that remained from the wreckage that I could collect was my severely wounded heart, an even frailer disposition, and a multitude of anguish.

I had two years left within this suffering hellhole, a place where adoption seemed out of the question towards a skinny and askew lad like me. But I supposed that that was alright, that I'd spend my time here and wait for someone to constantly point their finger elsewhere and shout gleefully: "Him! That one! The boy with the tattered yellow coat! Yes, yes, miss! We would love for him to become a part of our home!" Perhaps I am mistaken, but I often feel as if the hopeful new parents that stumble into this establishment label their children as household objects more often than a part of family. But who am I to ever have a say?

Several weeks before I could be granted free will and out of such a place that served a meager amount of food to consume, an elderly man by the name of Harrison Lethridge appeared at the doorstep of Kinstone one late April night during a horrendous storm. The caregiver who opened the rusty slit of the peeping hole told the man to "Come back at a later time and return to your home! There's too much drizzle out here."

The man responded with: "Drizzle? My dear, drizzle is child's play. This is God having a luxurious bath upon us all," Feeling a bit baffled and perhaps even a tiny amount belittled by the man, she let him step inside, and to not make much noise because the children were sleeping. This, of course, did not matter to the man at all, and he boasted proudly: "But darling, what is a home without proper morsels and happy children?" She quickly chastised the fool, and down I pattered from the steps.

"Meredith, what in heavens is going on..." And from there the ridiculous aging man chuckled and pulled out his pipe, letting the smoke billow into the rafters with ease.

"I have the strangest feeling that you, my boy, are the one I have come for," I stood there and backed up towards the last step, preening precariously over the edge, studying the man.

"I take my leave in three weeks, four days, surely you do not wish to take home someone such as I," He glanced at me from head to toe, as if he were surveying some prize sitting placidly upon a pedestal. But of course, to his audacity, he plainly stated: "I'll take him."

February 15, 1897

My father is growing older by the day, despite the fact that I have only lived here for no less than a month. I am not oblivious to his forgetfulness, nor his liver spots that seem to grow larger throughout the course of each week. Despite these differences, I care for him none the less. I visited Kinstone the day one month prior to my leave, and my absence seems to have made no such difference whatsoever. There are no women that I fancy within this town, except the one that lives about a brisk walk downtown in the yellow house. Her lips are always painted a rosy red, but she's been wedded about a year ago. I feel as if the wreckage caused from my first love will never become repaired. Despite the fact that my father constantly claims that "Time heals all wounds," I feel as if the one wound he constantly rips open will never be healed in itself. You see, my father succumbs to his desires, and those desires, no matter how horrific they may be, I must answer to. I know that I must take my leave from this house if I ever fail to meet his expectations, and I know that I shall never become the beast that is the man of this house. This man has raped me fervently every single night since my arrival, and my muffled cries can still be heard throughout this hollow and barricaded house, through my blinding, agonizing tears of discomfort. And I am terribly sorry to say that the old man himself, was madder than me.

© 2013 nihilistictablelamp

Author's Note

This was solely written for a contest, but reviews are always welcome. I feel as if I have played around with quite a touchy subject. Pun intended. Gosh I'm going to hell.