This Home of Mine

A/N: I just posted "Home - 2," a continuation of my story "Home." However, "Home," as long as it was and as much time I put into it, got no recognition from anyone. Was it because it was too much of a long piece? Did no one want to read something that long? I'm not too sure.

But I'm following what Naomi Gold once did and am reposting with a different name, more eye-catching, that says "my/mine," and a different picture that will hopefully bring more readers.

It worked with hers. (We miss you, Ms. Naomi.) I hope it works with mine, because I spent a very long time on this piece and it deserves at least something. If you want to read the original piece with its original italics and bold (since those did not copy over), you can find it on my profile.

***

My sweater is wet with the dew.

I stare down at the field and trudge throughout the marshy grass. It is an endless sea of green, and it rolls with the hills into the distance. There is no city skyline; I breathe in no smog. This is a field, and it is the only field I have ever wanted to be in.

My field of escape.

In one hand I hold my old glasses, cracked and stained with the passage of time. Under my elbow I tuck a precious sweater. In my other hand I hold two empty lunch boxes, decorated with the bright dreams of little children singing in the sky. In my eyes I have no tears.

There comes a point when you can no longer cry.

I lift my head. Having my head lowered is a habit I have had since I was younger and had to wear glasses. Rain made them dirty, and I was exceptionally upset whenever they became dirty. But now they no longer fit me, and my eyes have adjusted to the horrid world, and I no longer require seeing through a lens of love and lies. The world has fallen apart around me as I walk through this field.

Alone.

My footsteps are not accompanied by anyone. I stare into the gray horizon, searching for the silhouette of a distant home. I feel like a ghost, a kid lost in a dystopian story- a place where society has crumbled, and I am the last one alive.

But life goes on, and I am not the only one left. I have seen other people. Wicked city people. They stole the few small rations I used to keep. They tore the shoes off my feet. Their eyes glittered with greed. They yelled for justice and truth with one hand while they shoved me to the ground with the other.

Homeless! Orphan! Sickly!

Never realizing I was only lost.

I swipe my sleeve across my face to combat a runny nose. Stains of blood and mucus already trace up and down my sweater. A pang of remembrance runs through me and I stop in the midst of the rain.

That's how her sweater looked.

Remember when she was little? You would both share sicknesses like you shared toys...

Do you remember when she sneezed all over her desk? The teachers scolded her for being messy, but we laughed...

Don't you remember it all? Don't you remember everything?

No. Because I have to forget it all.

But I don't want to.

Because if I forget her, then she will be lost forever.

The cold breeze blows against the side of my face. I sniffle, fighting the urge to burst again, and shove strands of dirty-blonde hair out of my eyes. I keep walking. Only the swoosh of grass and the sweeping wind accompany me.

My fingers freeze around the frames of my old glasses. I kneel down, unfolding them, and place them gently into my dusty lunch box. The faded purple butterfly on the front catches my attention, and my eyes remained trained on it for far too long.

I stand up and leave it on the ground. Two memories, the spread butterfly and the lenses of lies, are left behind.

I don't need them anymore. Try to forget.

A small incline rises ahead of me, and I ascend willingly, shuffling through the tall blades of grass. Now only one of my hands is holding something. The other is free.

I reach the top. No more urban city, no more hatred and dusty alleys and rabid rats. Only a plowed ocean of waving, golden corn.

...There's a house.

In the middle of the field, there's a house.

I want to smile. It only feels fitting to smile. I have made it to these green fields, first of all- that is no surprise. I've been here for at least a day or so.

But here is a house. There is a house out here. A home that someone lives in. A home without the constant buzz of malice, the newsfeed and the failures and wars. A home to someone who works for what they have, who raises a family, who lives with truth and real understanding. A home with a single dirt road leading up to it that glides peacefully into the distance.

I swallow back a barrage of tears and turn my gaze to behind me. To the tree line that I came from. The tree line that separates me from a neighborhood.

She was almost here.

Another mile, and she would've made it here.

She could have lived just a little bit longer, and we would've gotten here together.

Unable to hold myself together anymore, I run down the hill, clutching the remaining sweater and lunch box in one hand and holding my dead hope in the other. This is a house. This is a home. People live in that home. People who could help me.

Because now that I'm alone, I have no one left to turn to.

I pray to above that the people in this house will take me in. The house is tall, two stories high, with a foundation of strong stones and firm wood. Pillars support a balcony overlooking the fields of corn. Windows decorate almost every wall with four squares of bright light, and on the inside, through a thin sheet of curtain cloth, I can see a family milling about.

Family?

I've almost forgotten about families.

But why have I forgotten?

Because I don't have a family anymore.

Just as it always happens, the possibilities of worlds where I had not run away, where I had stayed with my family, where I had stayed inside the school system, where I had adjusted to the rhythm of life of the organized world, fill my mind. The possibilities of living with my brother and mother and father. The possibilities of staying in the "real world."

This is the real world.

But it feels like fantasy.

Puffs of air run in and out of my lungs, and I begin to skid to a stop, nearer now to the house than before. I clench the grill-marked sweater and the lunch box in my hand, suddenly fearing rejection.

What if they don't take me in? Where will I go? What if they hate me? I will have no one left. I will have no one left.

I look at my shoes. What do I look like anymore? What have I become on the outside? That is what they will see first; this fearful scavenger that I have become. Dirty face, tussled hair, cut too short because of an accident with a barber I could barely pay for- everyone knows that people like me are good-for-nothing s***. They'll assume I spread sickness, carry disease, or that I've been sent my some kidnapper to abduct their children- they'll think I've gone insane, and they'll submit me to an asylum equal to a prison. Everyone knows that's what they'll do.

The city people tried to do it all to me.

What am I supposed to do?

I could steal. I could sneak into their house and steal food. I could steal clothing. Or perhaps I could steal a shower. Or a real toilet.

I've forgotten that houses have those things. I have been homeless for six years now. Only once did I ever have the chance to stay in a motel, thanks to the money she stole from the pocket of an oblivious shopper. And the room was infested with rats and mold. We did not stay for the whole night, afraid that we would get lice and assorted other illnesses.

I must stink. I haven't showered in however long. The homeless shelters had toothbrushes and toothpaste, so my teeth are fine, at the very least. But I look like I have lived on the streets my whole life. Self-conscious for the first time in six years, I run a hand through the tangled puff of hair encircling my head, wanting to cry.

For the first time, it's not about her.

What do I do? I step closer to the house, my shoes crunching on the gravel that substitutes for a useless driveway. On the opposite side of the house is a horse barn, a large, worn building made of red and white painted wood. In the cut fields, cows graze, not upset by the droplets of cool rain. In a corner of the driveway nearby, I can see a small chicken coop surrounded by a wooden fence. The chickens, huddling together, stay warm inside their crowded coop. I am reminded of the homeless shelters that provided me no comfort.

I remember toys. There were toys at the homeless shelters. Her and I wanted to take some with us, but all of them met some sort of horrible fate. A golden stuffed kitten I had chosen rolled into the sewers when I once set him down to tie my shoes. A tiger that we dropped in the middle of the road was run over by a busy rush of afternoon traffic. A plush bat was left behind in the basement of a building we had tried to sneak into for the night.

Voices from inside the house distract me. Listlessly, unaware that I am not invisible, I wander toward one of the windows of the house, peering into what seems to be a kitchen. A woman leans over a sink full of dishes, scrubbing a dirty plate with a washcloth. Her head is turned toward two younger kids who are both beaming like they have just been told they'll be given a dozen cookies each. The kids, their hair a brown mess on their heads, run over to a dark cabinet and dig out a sweet snack. Both of them race out of my field of view, and I hear the woman laugh to herself.

She turns her head back. Alarmed, I sidle away from the window and take in a deep breath.

A family does live in this house.

Behind the sound of the rain, I can hear a father's voice. Something about the rewards for doing chores comes to my ears. Immediately, I am reminded of living in my own home with my own father, my own mother, my own siblings, and my own chores.

I look to the right. There's the door. There is my chance at redemption. My chance to be looked upon by another person. My chance to be found again.

But... but...

Why am I so hesitant? A painful memory jabs me in the chest of when I was much, much younger. I had stood at the foot of my parent's door in the dark, shifting in my pink nightgown, afraid to open their door. I could hear the sound machine spewing white noise from within. I was too afraid to tell them I had thrown up all over the blankets.

I didn't tell them then. I never chose to.

I stare at the doorknob, drawing closer to it. The noises of a happy family come from inside. There's the sound of music from a record player. A few flashes of white light through the windows tells me they must have an old television. I can hear the two young kids laughing with each other as they devour their treat for the accomplishment of chores.

Will you choose to now?

I feel terrified. I feel myself shaking in the cold rain. Hesitantly, I tip-toe up the two steps to the door. And then I reach for the wood.

My fist hesitates. I want to knock. But I am too afraid. I will interrupt this family's life. They will send me away with nothing. I will be left without anyone and I will have no hope, just as I have had all this time. And everyone will be gone.

And I knock.

The mother's voice comes from the opposite side of the door: "I'll get it! Beckett, Elvis, won't you quiet down a bit?" Footsteps come from inside. And then someone grabs the handle. And then the door starts to open. And then the door is open. And then I see her.

The mother's hair is down over her shoulders. She wears an apron over work pants and a plain, flowery blouse. The warm light coming from behind her looks angelic and comforting, and her eyes are inviting. Once she sees me, her expression draws a general blank.

I realize why fairly quickly.

There she had been, washing dishes and spending time with her own lovely family, living out in the middle of nowhere with nothing but an old television and a long dirt road. And then here I am, standing out in the rain, sweater soaked and hair matted, face spattered with scuffs and dirt, dressed in torn clothes, clutching a lunch box and a smudged cardigan. A teenager. A no-one. A homeless ruffle. Not belonging anywhere or to anyone.

I instantly look at the ground. It's what I've done for six years now every time someone looks at me. I've had to hide my face from the authorities, otherwise they would bring me back to my parents. They would capture me.

They would rescue me. I hid from them because I knew they would return me to my loving parents who would shelter me forever. I hid my face because I did not want to be saved. Because I was too young to understand what "running away" was.

"Oh, dear." The woman exhales, giving out a small prayer under her breath. "Are you alright?" I look up to see her step closer, toward me. Her face is wrinkled with concern.

I blink at her. W... What?

Am I alright?

I breathe. "No."

She looks back into the house, looks towards me, and then back in the house, and then, finally deciding on what to do, she turns to me and beckons. "C'mon, c'mon, get inside, dear! You must be soaked in all this rain."

I stare at her, eyes wide. What? You're... not going to leave me for dust?

She looks at me a bit as I stand still, and then she smiles gently, reaching out. "Come in. I won't hurt you, baby."

I walk inside, timidly stepping onto the rug. The kind woman shuts the door behind me, saying, "Just stay here a moment while I get you a warm towel. Dry your shoes, if you don't mind." She takes a glance at her family in the living room and scurries down the hall, taking a left.

Towel. Warm towel. I can barely manage to think. Towel? She's getting me a towel? To dry off with? She's helping me?

I remember her words and idly scrub my ragtag shoes along the welcome mat, smearing it with mud and leaves and shards of grass. Too discombobulated to form a train of thought, I stand by the door for a moment more until she comes back out from the hall, a warm, beige towel in hand. "Here, honey." She notices the items in my hands and I wince. This is it. This is when she kicks me out. This is when I am an outcast again.

But it's not.

"You can set down your things anywhere you like," she says, "You must've tarveled a long way to get here." I drop the lunch box on the floor, unwilling to set down the tire-marked sweater, and she drapes the towel over my shoulders. Shivering, I hug it close to me. It is my lifeline.

The mother looks into the living room, stepping awy from me. "Beckett, Elvis, we have a guest."

A guest? Not an intruder? Or a thief? Or a homeless haggard? I'm... a guest?

The two boys in the living room perk up their heads when I peek around the corner. I stare at them, and they stare at me. They look like twins, exactly the same, wearing different sets of clothes that match their alternative personalities. And though they are brothers, both children seem to be getting along quite well.

I am reminded of my older brother. He must be taking college classes by now. We used to be so close when we were younger.

I look at the floor again and tear my eyes away from the twins. I don't want to think of it.

"Why don't you go to your room?" the mother asks, and both the boys push themselves to their feet and hobble into the hallway. Their eyes remain on me until they turn the corner to head into their shared room.

The father seems to have gone silent. For a few seconds, the only sound I can hear is the sound of a fireplace and the slight buzz of a children's show on the old television.

It's so warm in here.

The mother and father speak to each other, not being secretive or upsetting with any of their words. Unlike the city people, they talk as if I am in the room, not as if I don't exist. After a moment of discussion, the kind woman invites me into the living room and allows me a seat on the sofa.

I aimlessly shuffle toward the red couch. Paisleys and flowers are embroidered everywhere across it. I feel so out of place.

The father picks up a remote and turns off the television, pulling the bright images shut into a black snap. The mother sits down across from me on a loveseat. My mouth stays shut, as I do not know what to say. I had not expected this to happen. I had thought that they would shove me out into the open again as the city folk would, but they've taken me inside their home, and now I don't know what will happen next.

"What's your name, sweetie? How'd you get all the way out here?" The woman asks.

I swallow, sweeping a hand back through my wet hair. "I..." It's hard to even start a sentence. Only then do I realize that I have not spoken since she left. "I'm... I'm Chaya."

I sniffle. I look at the fireplace. I wipe my nose with my sleeve.

How did I get here?

"I was..." The words are lodged in my throat. I try everything in my power to force them out without crying. "I ran away. A- a long time ago."

I don't want them to think that I'll ever go back. I can't ever go back.

Suddenly, without my will, everything comes spilling out of me.

"I ran away with my friend s- six years ago. I l- lost her just this week." My words come out as croaks as I try, desperately, to hold myself together. "Now I don't k- know whe- where to go anymore, because... I'm so lost."

It goes on. The kind woman, throughout asking me questions about my extensive story, stands up and brings me hot tea, a plate to eat, and new clothes to change into. I feel as though, all this time, I have been a bottle, and the death of her has shoved all of my story into this one little bottle. I have been ready to burst for years now. But no one has listened.

Not until this family.

Not until now.

Night falls. The kind couple admit that they do not have a guest room in their home, since they never have guests out here in the open, but bales of wrapped hay lie out in the barn. When asked whether or not I want sheets, my automatic response is no. Sleeping in the warmth of the barn in bales of hay seems more dreamlike than anything I ever could have imagined.

But what if she could have been here for it?

Alone, after two hours of thirstily drinking tea and gratefully devouring the food I was given, I shimmy out of my soaked clothes and into the cargo jeans and sewed sweater I was given by the kind woman. She had sent me into the barn with an invite to stay as long as I needed to, and both her and her husband had sent their condolences to my past loss.

For some reason, I hadn't cried.

I fold the clothes in leave them in a tin bucket by the back of the barn. The few ponies that live inside it scrape their hooves against the dirt and stare at me as though I am a stranger, unaware of everything I have been through in the past six years. They think of me as yet another human, though as a human it is difficult to think of myself in such a way.

Finding a spark of courage within me, I wander toward one of the ponies and stretch out my hand. It doesn't snort; it doesn't chomp its teeth at me. Bowing its head by the stall door, it allows my hand to touch it.

My eyes dampen. It feels like touching a long-lost pet. The animal dips its head, driving my hand further upward, and I begin to cry.

But it isn't about her.

Not anymore.

And that is so... so relieving.

To finally not cry because she's gone.

To finally not weep because she has left the world forever.

To cry because I can cry. Because I will cry. Because I must cry.

I take my hand away from the horse in tears and turn to climb a wooden ladder stuck against the wall. The attic of the barn is filled with fluffed hay, a single lantern for flickering light, and nothing else. The boards creak beneath me as I make my way toward a small window at the very back of the barn. And I sink onto the bales of hay, teary.

I still have her sweater in my hands.

I don't remember how long it took for me to fall asleep. But I did. I creased the folds of her tire-marked cardigan in my hands and lay down on the hay. My eyes started to close at some point. I relaxed in the warmth and light and safety of the barn. And I slept.

Though I don't remember everything, there is one thing that I do recall.

I did not clench the memory of her so close to my chest.

I let it fall to the floor.

I did not reach down to grab it.

I was not afraid that I would lose it forever.

I did not fear that, if I let go, she would be gone.

It was just... natural. I let the memories go. I let them out of my hands.

I let them into these green, empty fields where we had dreamed to go.

And they ran away.

***

Thank you so much for reading.

This is 2 of Home, a past entry for the Next Great American Novel Challenge. Home lost by a long shot. It lost because it did not properly describe "American culture." It lost because it did not put down the rights of citizens or yell in the face of democracy. It lost because it did not portray a life of poverty and living in the slums.

It lost because it was about children.

Home is a journey that captures the life of Chaya and Cameron, two little girls who decide to run away from their world of school-and-home. They break the barriers of the outside and are instantly shoved away by everyone they meet. They are dirty and unwelcome and runaways whereever they go. No kind soul ever takes them in, and they slowly learn that the world they thought was so magical and lovely is nothing but a world that hates them.

They realize this too late. Six years after their successful escape from the school system, Cameron is hit by a speeding car in a peaceful neighborhood outside the city, and Chaya loses herself. She leaves a small memorial piece in Cameron's memory and spends days weeping until she has no more tears and no more thoughts to accompany her.

But she makes it to the green fields of dreamland. The real place where you go to "run away." The fantastical lands told of in fairytales.

And she sets off on her own, clutching the memory of Cameron because she is too afraid to forget it.

...Today, I had the idea to make a part 2 for home.

This could be part 2. This could be the last part. This could be the end. I don't know.

But this is what I've been dealing with lately.

I lost my best friend of nine years on August 10th, 2023, of her own will. On September 3rd, she made this official. And I tried to contact her again, because it was nine years of friendship, and I was too afraid to lose her. I thought I would lose the memory of her forever. I thought that I could set us back to the way things were.

I could not.

October 26th, she answered me back- and it was the final time. The last time. The falling action of where things could have gone.

She made the decision, and it was final.

So I have been afraid of losing her memory. I always knew that a day would come when I lost her forever. And because she lives across the world, I will never ever see her again.

I have cried many, many times.

I have been told many times that I cannot cling to this forever. And I have tried a thousand times to just "let it go" like everyone says. To "drop it." To "pretend she never existed.

...But now, I think it's finally happening.

Maybe I don't have to hold onto it forever.

thank you.

x, hearts