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Accidental criminal
#WritcoStoryChallenge
The painting was yellowed with rounded edges. It was a masterpiece and it was lying in my hand. Wait, did I steal it? I don't remember... I was sitting on a small bean bag in the corner back then. My face buried in my hands as I crouched beside the painting, and my knees drenched in sweat and tears. And there was blood too. Everywhere. I could feel it's sticky sweet sensation on my cheeks and lips. But I don't remember what happened.
I picked the painting in my hands. I held it close to my chest. "I'm a criminal." I said aloud. "I'M A CRIMINAL". I spoke to my demons in that room. The warehouse. It stores more of my fears than actual products. I was young back then. 26, and had my whole life ahead of me. "Not anymore. I'm going to jail... " I whispered.
I was shaking. Lord, I was so scared. "What's wrong with me?! " I cried, as my tears ran down through my lips. They were salty. I've been in and out of hospitals my whole life. That's what they tell me. That I'm not normal. But I don't remember. I never do. The doctors told me so many things:
Dementia, Alzheimer's, Bipolar disorder, and so many other names I can't pronounce. But it's not any of them. I can feel it.
I looked at the painting again. A daffodil field and the sunlight looking at it through the clouds. I silently got up, and walked to find a nail on the wall. I found one, and hung up the painting. I had practically lived in that warehouse. Old newspapers as my rug, broken bulbs for light, bottle glass taped to the holes as windows, and a cardboard box and hay as a bed. I ate mostly from the dumpster. I would scavenge every night. You would'nt believe how much food people waste. I felt like a vulture. I prey on the dead.
All my life, I couldnt remember anything. You can imagine how much of a hell school was for me. They told me I was reckless, I threw rocks on the other kids, destroyed swings, but I can't remember. Obviously, they thought it was a dumb excuse. "Where's your mind?" they would ask, "Aren't you trying?"
"Where's my mind?" I didn't care anymore. I would black out for hours, days, and wake up in my warehouse with crime stained on my hands. I dropped out in sixth grade. I can do maths, yes. But I don't need that anymore. I hate it. I hate myself. I hate that my future is crime. I hate who I am. Stupid disease. I wanted so much. An education, a good job, big house, large family, and a dog. But here I am. In the warehouse. A fugitive.
An accidental criminal.
The painting was yellowed with rounded edges. It was a masterpiece and it was lying in my hand. Wait, did I steal it? I don't remember... I was sitting on a small bean bag in the corner back then. My face buried in my hands as I crouched beside the painting, and my knees drenched in sweat and tears. And there was blood too. Everywhere. I could feel it's sticky sweet sensation on my cheeks and lips. But I don't remember what happened.
I picked the painting in my hands. I held it close to my chest. "I'm a criminal." I said aloud. "I'M A CRIMINAL". I spoke to my demons in that room. The warehouse. It stores more of my fears than actual products. I was young back then. 26, and had my whole life ahead of me. "Not anymore. I'm going to jail... " I whispered.
I was shaking. Lord, I was so scared. "What's wrong with me?! " I cried, as my tears ran down through my lips. They were salty. I've been in and out of hospitals my whole life. That's what they tell me. That I'm not normal. But I don't remember. I never do. The doctors told me so many things:
Dementia, Alzheimer's, Bipolar disorder, and so many other names I can't pronounce. But it's not any of them. I can feel it.
I looked at the painting again. A daffodil field and the sunlight looking at it through the clouds. I silently got up, and walked to find a nail on the wall. I found one, and hung up the painting. I had practically lived in that warehouse. Old newspapers as my rug, broken bulbs for light, bottle glass taped to the holes as windows, and a cardboard box and hay as a bed. I ate mostly from the dumpster. I would scavenge every night. You would'nt believe how much food people waste. I felt like a vulture. I prey on the dead.
All my life, I couldnt remember anything. You can imagine how much of a hell school was for me. They told me I was reckless, I threw rocks on the other kids, destroyed swings, but I can't remember. Obviously, they thought it was a dumb excuse. "Where's your mind?" they would ask, "Aren't you trying?"
"Where's my mind?" I didn't care anymore. I would black out for hours, days, and wake up in my warehouse with crime stained on my hands. I dropped out in sixth grade. I can do maths, yes. But I don't need that anymore. I hate it. I hate myself. I hate that my future is crime. I hate who I am. Stupid disease. I wanted so much. An education, a good job, big house, large family, and a dog. But here I am. In the warehouse. A fugitive.
An accidental criminal.
