Eddsworld x ChildReader

Ch. 1: Home

Chapter 1: Home

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Home.

A noun.

Definition: 'the place where one lives permanently, especially as a member of a family or household.'

You never had a home, nor a family if you're being completely honest with yourself. Well, technically that's not true. After all, you had to come from somewhere.

However, the vague memories or recollections you have from your early childhood aren't much, just the scent of baked cookies and gentle smiles followed by prickly, bearded kisses. Of gentle hugs that turned into tickle fights which resulted in loud peals of laughter. Even quiet nights spent snuggled beside a warm body, soft words swirling through the air and weaving tall tales of brave soldiers and outstanding battles.

Those are the only good memories you have of your original home. They aren't even necessarily memories, more of a feeling you get. A vague sense of familiarty and nostalgia triggered by certain things or events.

Either way, that was your first family.

Your first home.

And it didn't really count when you couldn't neccessarily recall anything other than vague, familiar feelings, now did it?

Sometimes, you wonder if you would be able to remember more - did your father ever sing to you? Was your mothers laugh just like yours? Could he cook? Could she sew? Did he clean? Did they fight? Were they kind?  - if it weren't for everything being drowned out by the sound of choked screams, of black smoke stealing the breath from your lungs, and searing heat that destroyed your world.

PTSD. Also known as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

That's what your therapist calls it at least. Unfortunately that's only part of the problem. The traumatic events of that night would long live on in your mind, branded on you in the horrible scar that ran up the length of your leg. It was an ugly thing, skin warped, pale and wrinkled that began at the heel of your foot and wrapped around your leg like a horrid vine, forever branded in your skin.

A mocking symbol of the life you can't remember.

You still occasionally wake up from nightmares thinking your back in that horrid basement as the flames crawl ever closer, burning you alive. The sound of screams dying in your ears as you choke on smoke that's not there and your leg aches from the phantom pain of licking flames.

No. That place and its oppressive memories of warmth and laughter but also fire and death are not home anymore.

Neither were the shelters or discarded boxes in alleyways you'd slept in before being taken in by a local adoption center. It wasn't easy, your early childhood life. The foster system wasn't great either and you try your best not to think about it.

After all, why would you when you've finally managed to find a place to call home?

You smile softly to yourself at that thought when you begin the trek up the driveway of a quaint two story house.

It's not much to look at really. Red roof, white walls, shuttered windows, and a brown door. A simple house. However, everytime you see this house, your home, it gives you a sense of safety and a thrill of excitement.

After all, the house itself may not seem like much but it wasn't really the outside that mattered.

"Guys, I'm home!" You shouted into the house quickly toeing off your shoes and balancing two bags of groceries in your arms.