Home Sweet Home

Home Sweet Home (Til Life Do Us Part)

But Jesus said unto them, A prophet is not without honour, but in his own country, and among his own kin, and in his own house.
Mark 6: 4

In the beginning, I was created from her rich and fertile soil. We are one. One in spirit, yet separate in thought.

Lately, I’m having doubts towards my pilgrimage back home. But my love for her, and to know if she still loves me, brought me here. Questions lay in my mind whether her belly will churn with betrayal when my presence draws near, or will she welcome me back with open arms? Will the iridescent street lamps remember my screeching wails my first night home from the hospital? Will the mighty tree that guarded my window remember my first day of school? Will the insatiable street remember all the blood and sinful souls I sacrificed for its name’s sake? Why wouldn’t she remember me? For God sakes, this is me damn it! Every square mile steamrolls through these here veins in the midst of my absence. Her vengeful lashes are infinitely etched in my granite skin. I’ve been to battle with the same demons that waged war against her and everyone living here. I’ve sucked on her cancerous breasts to seize my hunger pains since the day I was cursed with carnal thoughts and an appetite to match. So why am I plagued with this paranoia that something is different about her? Maybe my eyes have seen too much since the last time I saw her. But my eyes have made me the butt of its jokes before. Perhaps my imagination has found yet another way to exploit my quest for enrichment. Or maybe, it’s not my imagination.
Finally….I’m home.

I approach her with confident yet cautious steps. For the first time in my life I’m standing in front of her without the weight of sin on my lanky frame. A slab of worn concrete that was once my pedestal is now my diving board as I prepare to plunge into the shark-infested waters I feasted in long ago.

All five of my otherwise keen senses are limp, but my sixth sense can cut a hole through the tense vibe she’s giving me. Her auburn sky set everything ablaze. The fiery dome is raining down this smoldering heat causing my blood to boil and skin to tighten.

I would sell my mother for a quenching breeze to swoop down and towel me off.

Armed with only instinct to guide me, I started my quest with the zeal of a runaway slave. The dense fog is making it impossible to see, but my spirit knows every nook and cranny in this place and provides my feet with long confident strides. As the humidity presses on me I feel sluggish. Then, out of nowhere, a raised crack in the pavement reaches up and steals my fading strut. The tranquility seizes once the echoes of a baritone chuckle pierces my pride. My shame quickly subsides leaving traces of anger in its wake. I rise to my feet prepared to scour the world for the prankster but my reconnaissance will only result in wasted time.

So let me keep it moving.

As I dust off my tainted ego, the bloody haze begins to lift. Its residue reveals a forgotten land that must be hidden deep inside the caverns of hell. I gaze up at the cloudless, ocean blue sky remembering how easy it was for me to get lured into its shapeless beauty. I used to get lost envisioning all of my hopes and dreams floating on its calm waves. But, I also remember, as my struggles with life multiplied, realizing that those hopes and dreams were much like the foundation they rested on- infinitely deep and impossible to reach.

I tear myself away from the sky only to be stung by the reality that stunted my hopes and dreams. The sun vindictively smirks on the dilapidation choking the life out of her. I cringe at the rotted landscape being slovenly fused together by an invisible web of despair. Sadness floods my heart as the spirit of poverty, with its gluttonous appetite, feasts on this buffet of squalor. Strangely, I feel a bit overwhelmed with nostalgia of ghetto life in the distance. Vicious dogs barking along with an ice cream trucks theme song fill the muggy air. Car and bus engines roar fading into the unknown. Swarms of crickets express their enthusiasm for the heat by rattling compulsively. I’m surrounded by four brick apartment buildings with bars over each window. Legions of these twelve story buildings are scattered into the horizon, but my manger is nestled in the second tower to the left. Their tattered architecture cast shadows of tombstones in the dark corners of the daylight. If the weathered bricks could utter their thoughts, they would exhume agonizing moans depicting their eyewitness accounts of depression, greed and murder. Burnt grass, naked trees and broken chain-linked fences garnish the brick towers, and sandwich my pathway home. Colorful mosaics of crackviles, candy wrappers, broken bottles and fluorescent hopscotch boards are scattered across the uneven pavement. And bullet shells’ reflecting the screaming faces of their targets gleam in the sunlight.

In the center of the four buildings lies a playground filled with uninhibited crumb snatchers high off Now Laters and quarter waters. They remind me of the days when life was so much easier. But as they celebrate life by swinging from the same rusty monkey bars as I did, drama waits patiently for them to stumble. Mischievous, nappy-headed boys on dirt bikes are throwing rocks at a group of pony-tailed girls trying to put their heart and soul into a session of doubledutch. In a littered parking lot, the old-timers, with their raspy voices, shabby clothes and plastic cups filled with Johnny Walker black Label, sit on a soiled mustard colored sofa yapping about their layoff woes and picks for tonight’s title boxing match. A trench coat clad street dweller rummages through a stack of garbage bags piled on the curb. His hunger pains have numbed his nose from the stench of spoiled milk. His search for anything edible is successful with the discovery of a half-eaten pastrami sandwich. He celebrates with a backward shuffle and a holy ghost-inspired ‘Thank you sweet Jesus.’

Isn’t she beautiful? Being back here and seeing her reminds me of a time when I was deeply in love with her. Despite her flaws, she was beautiful in her own way and could do no wrong. Her abrasive touch taught me how to be a man amongst boys. Her cold shoulder froze my heart. She convinced me to value loyalty and sacrifice rather than life. Through trials and tribulations, she taught me how to deal with an ugly world when nobody else would. But little did I know she sold my soul to the devil, who in turn, placed me on a path destined for an early grave. Admittedly, I was blinded by her love and deafened by her lies. Then God’s undying mercy healed my blindness. Along with my blindness He healed my deafness so I could hear a forceful knock on my steel door. To my surprise, opportunity was standing there, with his manicured hands and needle-sharp suit, promising me peace of mind if I invited him in. I stared into his hollow eyes not knowing what to expect. Coincidently, my heart was growing weary of the callous lifestyle she was subjecting me to, so I welcomed him into my sanctuary. He took hold of my filthy hands and gave me the ever so poignant you-have-so-much-potential speech. He finally convinced me to change once he told me death was two steps behind him thirsting for my soul. Needless to say, I took advantage of his offer but neglected to consider the repercussions. But once opportunity made good on his word all consequences were incidental- except betrayal.

The sound of squeaky wheels grabs me from behind. As I turn around, an old decrepit woman pushing a shopping cart full of groceries is standing beside me. Her mysterious arrival puzzles me. The short, plump woman looks familiar, but I can’t put a finger on her name.

“Hello. Do you need some help?” I ask politely.

Her flowered dress coming right above her thick ankles is drenched in sweat. Without saying a word, her wrinkled face speaks volumes of physical pain, loneliness and a wisdom that no one with five minutes to spare wants to hear. Her clammy hands gently clutch my wrist. She stares at me with concern in her beady eyes. It looks as if she knows something and is searching for the right way to say it. With the voice of a young girl, she says passionately,

“Harken my voice. She’s of new as she was old. Thine softened heart has restoreth thine sight. Be mindful of your union. Ye possess love in thine bones for her. She blinds with her wicked beauty and mystifies with alluring speech. I warn you- walk softly in this o’ land of deceit.”

Her parable sends shivers down my spine.

Land of deceit? Where did that come from? What is this bag of prunes talking about and why is she worried about where I walk?

My heart pounds as her message replays in my head. She was convincing, but the bourbon on her breath makes me somewhat skeptical. She turns around and walks away at a snail-like pace slightly dragging her left foot and humming a gospel tune. Her words leave me twisted with confusion.

Land of deceit? Why is that sticking in my head? Could the one I love be deceiving me? She wouldn’t do that. She loves me. But what about the feeling of tension I felt when I got here? Nah, that was just my imagination. Besides, everything’s the same as when I left. That old coo-coo didn’t know what she was talking about. Land of deceit. Huh!

Her warning gets thrown in the back of my mind as I hear shouting at the other end of the playground. Excitement gushes out of my pores when I feast me eyes on the familiar group of men playing dice around a wooden bench. All eight men are draped in expensive clothes, lustrous jewelry and flashing stacks of money that appear contrary to the less than affluent setting. While the dice shake, fingers snap and probability meets reality, they taunt each other about bad rolls and risky side bets. Their aggressive yet customary tones towards each other ricochet off the bricks and hit young ears that have total immunity against the foul language and content. Brash comments about each of their mother’s weight or complexion add to the friendly tension. Loud burst of laughter often replace their assertiveness showing that in the midst of despair festive mood swings exist.

For the past two years the idea of reuniting with those men ravaged my thoughts and tested my patience. The covenant we vowed to preserve is sealed with all the dried blood, dirty sweat and salty tears that serve as testimonies if our evil deeds. We possess an unconditional love for one another that surpasses menial differences. Oaths of loyalty until death have breezed between the same lips we cursed each other with. Bread was broken with the same hands we battered each other with. And never has a foul word stuck to our egos. They are my brothers.

The feeling of their callused palms smacking mines drives my tired steps. Visioning their smiling faces and encouraging words puts a glow around me.

“A-yo,” I scream.

Their game experiences a slight pause as they turn to witness the prodigal son’s return. I flare my arms up to await the multitude of hugs and pounds that a street veteran deserves. Instead, my heart nosedive’s into my bladder when I see their lack of enthusiasm. Their blank stares and monotone mumbles are making shameful goosebumps across my dimming skin.

This must be a joke?

After two years I’m finally standing alongside my brothers and the only welcome I get are sixteen bloodshot eyes slashing my weary body. Their arctic demeanors have extinguished my long lit flame. Their nostrils flare with fury. Their jugular veins pulsate. The narrow eyes and tight lips painted on all eight faces put stains in my red carpet.

Something’s telling me this isn’t a joke.

Their stone faces show no signs of an amusing punch line.

Something’s not right. Why are my brothers acting like this towards me?

Despite my confusion, I manage to muster a friendly smirk hoping to ease the tension, but their catatonic state is overruling my attempt at peace.

“Wus up fellas? It’s me!” I say proudly. Nervous beads of sweat drip down the backs of my legs as I try to piece this puzzle together. The sweet music of the ghetto is muted. An eerie hush suddenly falls with the impact of a megaton bomb. As I survey the area to find out what caused the silence, every strand of hair on my body stands at attention.

The masses of people getting their daily dose of life just minutes ago are shooting me the same heart-piercing look. They’re staring at me as if they’re serving as judge and jury against my countless iniquities. My breathes become heavier as if their eyes are hundreds of black holes trying to suck me in. The once rambunctious children now resemble lifeless zombies with looks of disgust chiseled on their round, innocent faces. The old timers put their babble and booze session on hiatus so we could trade harsh glimpses. Their old, sun-dried mugs mirror the ugliness they must feel towards me. The towers that hover around me are not blameless in this in this crime against me. Behind each caged window, a frozen bystander harpoons me with a disdainful gaze. Given this awkward situation, I stand boldly.

Even if this lump in my throat wasn’t here swallowing my pride would be the last on my list. I know this look. It’s that cold stare you throw onto a poor soul’s confidence when you deem them unworthy to breathe the same air as you. But me, unworthy? If anybody should be worthy of respect it’s me. Oh…I get it. This hostility can’t be because I left. You all, my brothers, gave me blessings when I made my departure, and encouraged me while I was gone. These snot-nosed kids were in Huggies when I made my exit. What do they know? And these old geezers were the same drunkards telling me I wasn’t going to be shit. Now look at me. I’ve got a grip on life while they still have butter on their hands.

And just that quickly the pieces to the puzzle come together.

Land of deceit. Please tell me she didn’t do this to me? Did she turn these people against me? Who else could put together such trickery? I felt the tension between us the second I got here but denial clouded my judgment. Does she care to remember everything I’ve done for her? I sacrificed my well being for the sake of executing her evil will. If she feels I’ve betrayed her by leaving I’m sorry, but what was I supposed to do? Death practically had his cold lips on my cheek. Would she have rather seen me in a casket? Is that it? Am I better off dead? I can’t count all the shit she put through. Yet I don’t love her any less or play games with her mind like she does to me. She puts my people through disheartening pain and they still remain loyal to her. Every tear cried by somber mothers in the memory their fallen children is on account of her malicious agenda. Every slug whizzing through the air is cast in the desperate pursuit of for what she holds back from us. Drugs and booze possess our souls to take our minds off her devious plots. And she blames me for not wanting to continue doing her dirty work. If that’s the case she never loved any of us. She’s a selfish bitch and we don’t owe her shit. I know I’m at the mercy of her justice, which is swift and fatal. But my higher authority will reign a greater justice onto her. He will torment her for eternity using the same protocol she uses on us, only her dose will be increased one hundred fold.

I brace myself for whatever my thoughts may have stirred inside of her wretched mind. The crowd is still under her spell. Suddenly everyone’s creeping towards me. I’m trying to run but my feet won’t move. Panic seeps into my chattering bones. They’re surrounding me, and aside from the faith I’m clinging to for dear life, I’m defenseless. They’re close enough to where I can see hells fire burning in each person’s eyes. I fall to my knees and begin to pray for repentance before I’m taken to my new home, wherever that may be.

Vague words are muttered from everyone’s lips while I’m renewing my soul. Their voices get louder as they continue to chant harmoniously, “Ju-das, Ju-das, Ju-das….” The stress on each syllable reflects their hatred against me.

As they move within arms length globs of spit shower down on me. What was light is now dark. The possessed mob has eclipsed the mighty sun encasing me in a vulnerable darkness.

A barrage of fists pummel me before I can confirm my confession with an amen. I’m swing back to save what little integrity I have left, but my jabs hit nothing but air. The more I fight back the harder they hit me. I shield my head with my hands and arms. The soles of deep-treaded boots and church shoes are smashing my ribs, along with my dignity. I grasp onto that faith that by the looks of things abandoned me. My face is scrapping against stones and asphalt. I spit out blood so I could cry out “GOD HELP ME” with all the strength my bruised body can gather. Every ounce of my compassionate, respectful, loyal, loving and proud spirit is being beaten out of me, leaving my old spirit to thrive off the anger and hate I thought had died a long ago. I lust a slow, gruesome death to fall on everyone striking me.

A queasy sensation is coming from my stomach. Whatever’s in there is twisting my stomach into knots. But it’s not the discomfort from being tap-danced on. It’s the feeling of hot vomit rapidly climbing up the walls of my throat. I gag but nothing comes out except a drop of bloody saliva. The hot, bitter taste of bile and breakfast is absent. I gag again. Only this time a buzzing noise comes from my throat and instead of vomit, a swarm of killer bees exit my mouth.

Hordes of bees scatter in all directions. Everyone that revolted against me is fleeing to avoid a wrath of biblical proportions. I’m powerless. My body is not my own. I’m no longer in control; someone or something lese is. My eyes roll into the back of my head so I can only hear the chaos my anger and hatred is causing. Deathly screams prevail over the buzzing of millions of inch long killers. I can sense the agony of slow death all around me. The bloodstains of a mass murder tarnish my soul with each venomous sting. The thunderous pounding of feet shakes the ground. The last of the bees trickle out of my mouth with no less tenacity than the first one. It sounds as if the pestilence is fading. My heavy eyelids only catch a blurry snapshot of the mayhem. Bloody corpses lay on top of one another. Other bodies lay convulsing from toxic shock. A few bees linger, still thirsty for flesh to quench their killer instincts. My heart is too weak to feel grief. I collapse from exhaustion. My head hits the ground and then there’s darkness.

I’m awaken out of my stupor by the ammonia-like stench of death. Although my body’s stiff from pain, I manage to stagger to my feet. Heavy smoke and dust blanket everything around me. I’m covered from head to toe in ash, blood and an unshakable guilt. But no matter how much I try, this guilt can’t reverse the holocaust that is laid out before me. Hundreds of lifeless bodies are sprawled out like meat in a butcher shop. Rubbing my eyes and tossing up empty wishes of this being a twisted nightmare isn’t distorting this horror. Feces and urine stanktify the smoky air. The smoke and dust can’t conceal the blood and puss that soaks every man, woman and child. Rigormortis has set into the anguished faces of those who pleaded for their lives. Puncture wounds from the bee stings are tattooed on every visible body part. Shoes, baseball caps and other objects lay stranded from their deceased owners. And flocks of famished vultures are already feasting on the smorgasbord found only in their wildest dreams.

The brick buildings that once were so indestructible are now pieces of charred rubble piled to the heavens. Their silent moans have been unbroken by the wounded hissing of busted steam pipes. The roofs that towered way over my head are now mounds of gravel beneath my feet. The piss-infested stairways, dark hallways and temperamental elevators are all but a distant memory.

I feel like I need to run away, but I can’t. I feel like I should cry for these people, but I won’t. I don’t know what to feel anymore. I came back here to pay my respects and now I’m leaving with blood on my hands. It’s in my nature to destroy everything I touch. I want to change, but whether I want to believe it or not, wickedness still lives inside me. Only death will set me free of her stranglehold.

But until that day comes, lord will I ever live righteously? I doubt it.

A ray of sunlight penetrates through a crack in the smog. At this point, the touch of anything holy will never sanctify this tainted ground. While God reaches for His latest souls to judge I plead for forgiveness and mercy on mine. Midway through my plea I’m interrupted by the shopping-cart-wielding old lady. I crack a bittersweet grin, but inside I’m shocked as to why she’s not laying amongst the dead. For someone who walks like they’re on their last leg, she’s walking towards me maneuvering rather agilely around the bodies. Showing no signs of emotion, she doesn’t seem to be disturbed by the dead bodies everywhere. She’s still humming the same gospel tune without a pause or crack. Finally, she stops in front of me. I just want to hug her to make sure I’m not dreaming, but a small dose of fright is helping me keep my composure. She grabs me by the shoulder and pulls me slowly towards her as if she has to tell me something confidential. Her emotionless face turns into a wide, toothless smile. With our noses touching she looks me straight in the eyes and whispers, “Welcome Home.”