Lugging his things down the stairs as his bag straps leave sore, long-lasting bruises in place of them. An empty house that never felt like a home should leave his mind soon. Memories that should be left to rot can begin decaying.

Once at the bottom of the stairs, he throws his bags down in an exhausted manner. The hassle of running away is more difficult than expected, but another day confined within the fetid stench of abuse is more nausea inducing than anything else. Taking a minute to pull the bags straps clasping to his throbbing shoulders off he notices an instinctive emotion. That a small piece of him will always bear the burden of these claustrophobic walls. With these feelings of hatred for his home interweaving with a deep rooted mourning of his so called birthplace this makes a burning sadness erupt within him. Dragging his hand across the wall of the hallway to fix the last craving he’ll have for his wretched home. Feeling the dents and cracks in the wall, some which were covered with a plaster to hide the disgrace of the house. This creates a rough texture upon his finger tips. He takes in a deep inhale and sits on the last step of the stairs for a moment before he leaves to never return. But, his feelings are like a void too intense to understand.

His soul will forever swirl at the mention of his old home, there is no true escape from his corrupted roots. A part of him will incessantly venture for the nostalgic emotion of his birthplace. It will never leave his side, perpetually gripping his heart.