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Slices of Pie
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Chapter 39:- Any Place I Hang My Hat Is Home
"Any place I hang my hat is home"
Damn no it's not. I can hang my hat - or my backpack - on a tree branch but the tree won't feel like home. The tree won't protect me from searching lights and probing eyes, it's not doing much of anything for the rain that's falling. It's not home, for how could it be home when all it does is remind me of what I've left behind? Why is it that I can't run away? It's only sure that I can't go back. What can I do if not run away? I will always be haunted by my past, I know it. There is only one option to keep living, and that is to keep living with mental flashes of my mom and the floor and my dad with a knife. I vaguely wonder where my mom is then realize I don't care. I don't care because she never cared about what happened to me. I swallow a handful of pills with a swig of gin and realize I need to find a way to find more, and soon. The painkillers are virtually gone, leaving me with a rough dull ache all over. My limbs felt like they had been filled with lead and my nose was running from sleeping in the cold misting rain. I leaned back against the tree and stared into the gray foggy morning. I couldn’t see anything, and I felt truly alone. Paranoia kept me squinting constantly into the fog for anyone approaching. I don't know what to do. Sure, I've run away, but now what? The hopelessness of my situation suddenly hit me with crippling strength. I hugged myself around my knees and rocked back and forth. That failed and I started searching through my bag. The knife came out and I drew patterns on my arms, tracing delicate lines all the way up to my shoulders. I contemplate moving to ankles, but realize I am too tired, too weak. I leaned back and try to think of what to say when someone approaches me, as someone inevitably will. Even if it's just some security guard telling me to move my sorry ass.
Telling me to find somewhere else to hang my hat. To find a different slice of pie.
"Any place I hang my hat is home"
Damn no it's not. I can hang my hat - or my backpack - on a tree branch but the tree won't feel like home. The tree won't protect me from searching lights and probing eyes, it's not doing much of anything for the rain that's falling. It's not home, for how could it be home when all it does is remind me of what I've left behind? Why is it that I can't run away? It's only sure that I can't go back. What can I do if not run away? I will always be haunted by my past, I know it. There is only one option to keep living, and that is to keep living with mental flashes of my mom and the floor and my dad with a knife. I vaguely wonder where my mom is then realize I don't care. I don't care because she never cared about what happened to me. I swallow a handful of pills with a swig of gin and realize I need to find a way to find more, and soon. The painkillers are virtually gone, leaving me with a rough dull ache all over. My limbs felt like they had been filled with lead and my nose was running from sleeping in the cold misting rain. I leaned back against the tree and stared into the gray foggy morning. I couldn’t see anything, and I felt truly alone. Paranoia kept me squinting constantly into the fog for anyone approaching. I don't know what to do. Sure, I've run away, but now what? The hopelessness of my situation suddenly hit me with crippling strength. I hugged myself around my knees and rocked back and forth. That failed and I started searching through my bag. The knife came out and I drew patterns on my arms, tracing delicate lines all the way up to my shoulders. I contemplate moving to ankles, but realize I am too tired, too weak. I leaned back and try to think of what to say when someone approaches me, as someone inevitably will. Even if it's just some security guard telling me to move my sorry ass.
Telling me to find somewhere else to hang my hat. To find a different slice of pie.
