Home | A flash fiction story
74 of đź’Ż
I’ve lived in many places, but I’ve never felt at home. I used to lie in bed and stare at the dark ceiling of my small apartment — the only space that has ever belonged to me — and be taken by this desperate sensation of wanting to go home. I don’t know what that meant, “going home.” My apartment was my home, but it also wasn’t.
At that time, I used to live in Argon. I’ve seen the depravity of the human mind thriving in a system with no regard for fairness. Survival of the fittest means whatever works sticks, and being an asshole works very well in that city.
I’ve lived in The Fringe, too: the necrosed skin around Argon. I’ve seen people thrown out of the city fight to the death for solace: food, clothes, weapons. Anything imbued with hope of better times.
I’ve lived in The Wastelands, the emptiness between Argon and the wild forests of Anchora. If Argon is the most civilized place on this planet — which it barely is — those forests are the exact opposite: a completely untamed wilderness. I’ve been there too, and I don’t intend on going back. And the Wastelands? It’s nothing but a desert brimming with death and giant bugs, but it’s where our huts are.
I’ve lived in many places, but that feeling of wanting to go home has never gone away. Until I met Jax.
He climbs to the top of his retrofuturistic hut some nights and just lies there looking at the night sky, and it makes me look too. I know the universe is vast and empty, and there’s an infinite amount of space between each bright dot. But from down here, they look so close together, so strong and unafraid in the vastness of space.
I’m not sure what I’ve been looking for, but if wanting to go home has guided my search, that search is over. I am finally home.
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