The Forgotten
Prologue
There are quite a few proverbs about home. You know that saying, “Home, sweet home”? I certainly did. I probably knew it too well. Isn’t it supposed to mean that your home is like your sanctuary, your friend’s open arms in times of pain, like your bed when you’re exhausted, or a child’s blanket when they’re blue? Well, if that’s true, what does it mean if you are the only one left in your family, your world? I guess I took this phrase for granted. I thought it was supposed to imply trust that you could always rely on your home as your ticket out of reality. I now find that I was wrong.
I find that the phrase,”No place like home” is actual and not fictional. I think that my mind has distorted the intended meaning of it though. I believe that this one was intended as a feeling of relief, like when normal people reach their abode after a long trip, they step over the doorstep and exclaim, “There’s no place like home!” Then the mother of the family kisses each child on the head and turns to her husband and does the same. That’s where “Love makes a house a home” comes in. That family steps into their home; meanwhile I’m across the street, watching them alone from my house with tears in my eyes.
I realize that I’m not like that normal family. My house does not possess love. My house is not like anywhere else, not because it is separated by joy and happiness, but by loneliness and sadness, with no family or any open arms.
I still wish the best for those people, but sometimes I can’t help feeling sorry for myself. I know that it’s rude of me, but I truly think that there is nothing in the world that can help me now.
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