Jones was two winters old when he lost his mother to cardiovascular disease. Too young to put up with the pain of her absence, he was adopted by his paternal aunt days later; miles away from his living father & siblings. His foster parents would try to love him to the best of their capability, but with each love coming his way, there was something that he felt lacked at the depth of his heart. Sensible enough, he would never let his heart out lest it might create something unwanted within his new family. On the days when his father (or his siblings) would visit him, he would turn happy. And for why the happiness manifested, he had not more than the slightest idea: ‘they must be something closer to him.’ Tragic enough, his whole world of happiness would come crashing down on the days that they would leave him.
Whenever there was any moment of happiness within his new family, some unknown waves of sadness would pass through his body as electric current, & he would just cry his heart out; sensing the hell his life had become. As years went by, melted into decades, his condition aggravated to the extreme degree. Quite often suicidal thoughts would cross his mind, and to cope with it, he took help of cigarettes. Hardly an hour would pass by without him pulling on a ciggy. Smoking harmful substances grew on Jones to such an extent that he would shake after only moments of not having them. (But what would one expect from someone continued to be haunted by some unknown horrors!) Only demons & his vulnerable self. Whenever the latter tried to put on a smily face, the former would come into play.
Physically weak, emotionally drained, and mentally dead, Jones would have talked to people to prevent the dark forces from approaching him, had they been kind to him: he was looked down upon. Quite often becoming subjected to their varying, low-pitched sneers, as he didn’t own a more strong body & all the features that the wicked possess. If there was a talk going among his evil friends/relatives, nobody would talk to him, & he was never given a chance to talk. This laid more trouble on his much-troubled mind. If he was not worthy of mere talks, what more did he need to commit suicide; and then he would turn radically suicidal.
For fear of being judged too often on the basis of his physicality, Jones cooped himself up in his small room-permanently. Doing ‘everything’ possible to prevent himself from bursting with life-threatening emotions.
Wallowing in despair, Jones is seeing no way forward. His mind doesn’t let him think beyond his majorly affected self. There seems to be no shoulder to lie his head on. He remains dead silent, stuck thinking about himself. Every time. All the time. To see words come out of his mouth is like a dream come true. Amid all this chaos in his life, a spark arises from his soul which has him feeling that everything would be fine. One day. One fine day. But deep down he wishes he had died in his mother’s womb. Period!