Supplement for love

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic


Growing up can be difficult especially if you live in a broken home.

Submitted: January 17, 2018

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Submitted: January 17, 2018

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Wally wondered what the future held for him.

Each night he lay amongst his army of teddy bears and gazed up at his glow-in-the-dark stars and wondered, "What is going to happen with my life?"

He was nine.

His mother worked full-time at the local strip club. She was never around. Every night she came home followed by the smell of alcohol and cigarettes. Sometimes she left tips on the kitchen bench so Wally could buy food for lunch. Other times he went to school hungry.

He supposed that he could make his own lunch, but there never seemed to be anything in the cupboards he wanted to eat. There was never any bread to make sandwiches like the other children seemed to have, and there was never any fruit. On a good day Wally could find a snack bar or a bag of salt and vinegar chips. On a bad day, he had nothing.  The kitchen was mostly filled with the liquid food both mummy and daddy seemed to live on.

Wally's father was meant to do the grocery shopping. but he didn't. He wasn't home either. He didn't have a job. Instead he spent his time at his mate’s place or at the 'Bleeding Pig,' the local bar. He would arrive home after 12 every night with takeaways, this was Wally's dinner.

Wally spent hours alone at home. He didn't have any friends at school because of his ragged clothes. His parents said he could choose, teddies or clothes. He chose teddies. He didn't want to be alone. Wally hated his life.

He was nine.

Wally's grades were failing. He carved his name into the desk and came very close to carving death into his arm.

He was nine.

While a greasy lout shoved a dollar bill down his mother’s butt crack Wally hugged his teddy so hard it seemed the stuffing may pop. The tears fell. He heard his father open the front door. He wanted to run to him. He knew those arms would only mean a beating to the head. A black eye or a re-break of his arm. He tried to cry softly. He wanted to go to sleep.

He was nine.

The children played hop-scotch in the street and knuckle bones. Some played chicken on the road. Wally lay awake and thought about his future. How he may never escape this pain he felt. He was nine. A child. Why did he have to be filled with so many thoughts of suicide?

Wally thought of his future. He found a gun. His fathers. It was hidden in an unlocked drawer.

It was armed.

Finding it seemed like fate. Wally turned the safety off.

He thought of his future and deemed it dead.

Holding the gun he aimed and shot his teddies one by one.

As the stuffing flew so did the love they had replaced. That love that was stolen by fat fucks and bottles of booze. Love can be so easy to give if you feel it. Yet people seem to feel the need to buy it. That and happiness. If you love someone just hold them and tell them. Tell them that you will never go. That you will always be there for them. Tell them.

When each teddy lay dead Wally dropped the gun to the floor and packed a bag.

He then walked out the door.

Wally ran away.

He was nine.


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