Home?

Home?  I have none.  I like to think that I do, that I just haven't found it yet.  But one thing I know for certain, THIS IS NOT MY HOME.

My father once tried to convince me that this was my home.  But he's wrong.  If this were my home I wouldn't always feel so out of place.  I would be able to walk down the street without getting the feeling.  That feeling you get when you know someone is staring at you, the sensation of their eyes roaming you up and down, making you feel violated, making you want to run.  I hate sticking out wherever I go.  I hate my pasty white skin.  I hate my straight blond hair.  I would give anything to have skin and hair like a chameleon, that would simply blend in with my surroundings.  But my eyes I would keep.  I could always where sunglasses when I'm going out, but I could never give up their brilliant blue sparkle.  Not because I find it pretty--I hate the color blue--but because my father always tells me that I have my mother's eyes, and even if I've lost ever other reminder I ever had of her, I will always cherish the eyes that she gave me.

The End

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