His Sour Lemon #2.1

Part 2: Little Lemon's Flying Out of My Ass

CHAPTER 2: Little Lemon's Flying Out of My Ass

March 18th, 2030.
6:00 am, Outskirts of New York City, America.
Hanger basement Lockers Sector Three.

I was running the gauze tape along my right hand, my knuckles were long since scarred and the scarred tissue against my lower thighs burned when I remember each lash stricken against them for causing a fight with Sampson Seer in the courtroom during eating hour. One hour a day, one source of meal-that was it.

The blood ran dry between my finger nails. The metallic smell use to be horrific, sickening, but getting use to someone else's blood on my hands was something I had to learn immediately, something I didn't have a choice in not comprehending early.

I remember my first fight as a kid. He was twice my size and still an orphan in the same place I was brought to, in the same arena, the same stone cold, concrete walls that echoed with massacred screams, roars of both male and female alike. The roars never stopped, no matter the amount of muscle relaxers I was on, the mind manipulators that would torment and degrade.

I remember just being a gullible fool at nine years old, thinking I had finally freed my wretched, mangled and barely breathing body into the cold snow that I'd come so use to, that I had come to breathe in as if the air was natural, as if warmth wasn't ever possible from a sun i didn't know existed, or something as foreign as the feeling of love.

I heard about it once.

Just the pin prick, the stroke of a pen maybe, I heard the word before-didn't have a clue what it meant, I just heard it, a fluttering whisper, someone spoke of it once and I was near. I was listening. What it was-I had no idea, all I imagined was that it was warm. Like a sunset kind of warm-not that I'd ever felt such a thing against my skin, such orange warmth, such golden glow from rays of a heated, foreign object I'd only read about.

I was a child.

Locked away.

Called as though I was a deflected species. As though I wasn't worthy to be called 'human'.

The word was as foreign as 'love'.

I though of some sort of fairytale, a city of light maybe. 'Love' held a resemblance, whether I truly knew it or not, I let my fascination get the best of me in that little tattered corner, a dead rat in the other and the smell of urine on the other side. The metal chain never let even one part of my lanky bones not suffer the steel plate of its maniac strength. The way it tightened around my growing body like a curse, a real shackle against the biting cold of the outside snowy air.

My six year old, self sitting in a cellar of dirt, grime and fear. I knew fear really well, like the back of my hand kind-of-well, like the number of teeth I had, the toothbrush of my fingernail and the white snow that would topple over me whenever there was a breeze.

Malnutrition bit at me. Neglect of what the walls whisper as 'love'. I was a frightened, fearful little canine along with the other neglected children in the walls. I remember each painful gasp when I ate whatever was slid under the cellar metal door, whatever light I could use from outside to avoid stepping on another frozen rat, or something else. Damp concrete scratched against the flimsy, potato sack of clothing. A pillow case with three holes for my head and arms.