A pile of bricks and wood. That’s all that was left. If I didn’t know the area, it would have been completely indistinguishable from all the other piles. It was my home once, my first home. I knew what had happened, almost as soon as it happened. Some how it didn’t matter as much then. I had bigger things to worry about, I had to be strong, because no one else was. It seems like such a small loss, considering everything else. But that only made everything else more apparent.
A house is more than a home. It’s a personal sanctuary. When someone said that a mans home is his castle, it was the truth. It holds all your memories, it keeps you safe, both physically and emotionally. And right now that’s what I needed.
17 years. That’s how long I fought. From sudden, bloody start, to sudden, bloody end. 10 years of fighting preceded that, the slow, draining, legal kind. Protests, donations, jail time, court time. Lost time, lost friends. And then there was the war itself. I’m amazed I didn’t lose it all so many times. So it wasn’t a surprise to anyone that I needed to vent.
“GOD DAMN IT! GOD FUCKING DAMN IT! EVERYTHING! I GAVE EVERYTHING I FUCKING HAD!”
I yelled to no one in particular, screaming at the top of my lungs, breaking the already broken bricks and wooden frame. I knew it wouldn’t fix anything, but I had to let it go. Before hand I couldn’t, I had to put it off, because other people needed me to be cool and calculated. To be strong and confident, because they had lost just as much, that they couldn’t stand to lose their hope too. So I had to push it down, put it away for them, for the greater good. But when would the ‘greater good’ give back to me? I’m still hoping to find out.
And just as soon as those thoughts entered my mind, I stopped. These guys lost just as much, gotta be strong for them. I collected myself, grabbed my shovel, and got back to work. It may have been my home, but now it was rubble that needed to be cleared.
