Nathaniel Wells

Another Chapter

Depressed...

Lonely...

Unwanted...

As a child, I felt nothing more than the sting of these words being turned into an unwelcoming reality. 

Love?

Support?

These are ideal words that build the foundation for a person's life.

                  My Foundation?

My parents drank to the point where they decided that they couldn't afford both an addiction and a son.

At the age of six years old, a signature at the adoption agency illustrated their relentless failure at raising an innocent child. 


So, how can a house withstand the instability of having no foundation?

I'll tell you.

Here is my story:

  As I approached the sizeable metal tube that was destined for Heathrow Airport, I remembered the chapter that I was leaving behind; the life that I didn't completely take pleasure in. I am now twenty years old and I can finally acknowledge the development of my flourishing life. A once miserable, insignificant boy, Cameron, who had lived with his parents on the west coast of Canada is about to start fresh.

    "Can you move?" An irritated, middle-aged traveller blurted out, interrupting my thoughts.

    I apologized and immediately climbed the stairs leading into the airplane. At 6:15 in the morning, I struggled to smile back at the flight attendant as I boarded the Air Canada flight. After being seated and listening to a safety demonstration, the captain made an announcement to advise the passengers to fasten their seat belts and to get ready for take-off, which was a cue for me to begin my nap that would last for the duration of the flight.

After eight years of convincing myself that I did not deserve a family, the Anderson's adopted a fourteen-year-old boy with a face covered in light brown spots, hazel coloured eyes, and a wearer of well-worn overalls. James and Zooey Anderson are the types of people who would witness a house burning and be too consumed with their own thoughts to do anything about it, but they would express their deepest sympathies for the victims and pretend like they personally knew them. And you know what? People would buy into it because of James' smartly dressed attire, black coifed curls, and quirky smile; and Zooey's slim build, motherly persona, and elephantine bank account.

I lived with them for six years and I can wholeheartedly say that I'm grateful to them for rescuing me, but I needed to escape, not from them but for my own space.

   As a piercing sound signaled over the crowd, it sparked terror throughout the 247 passengers and pandemonium had arisen as a result. I inhaled smoke and exhaled to stay alive. The once dimmed aisle was now shielded by a veil of smoke, straight ahead dawned a conflagration beyond its control. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the metal portion of the seat in front of me: hazel, panicked-filled eyes with dark circles resting underneath them, short brown, gelled hair that was in a swept-back-needed-a-trim style, pencil-thin facial hair, and a casual burgundy university sweater from my boyfriend's closet.

Rylan. 

Our commitment to each other started three years ago; he completed what was missing in my life and we created an actuality of intimacy and reliance. Throughout a difficult period in my life, Rylan said to me, " You unfailingly see the light exceptionally in the dark." Rather poetic at the time, but it meant something less figurative as the plane went pitch black and the fire illuminated the cabin. 

    I tried to remain calm, but I could not fucking handle the screaming and the horrid smell of burning flesh. 

    How is the plane still airborne?

I vividly remember the first day when I arrived at the Anderson's house, my new home: a fair-sized house, with a garage attached to the left side of a white panelled structure; a stepping stone walkway led to a jet black door that was located on the bottom of the two-storey home, and a hefty metal fence encompassed the perimeter of the grounds. The polished wooden floors and brightly painted walls welcomed me as I walked inside. I was told my room was located up the spiralled staircase, down the hall, the last door on the right; a room that contained a twin-sized bed, a mahogany dresser and a computer that faced an azure coloured wall in the left corner.

    The plane vibrated. "We have to move this section to the back of the place. Everything is going to be okay. Stay Clam," a flight attendant empathically instructed. Subsequent to her reassurance, we steadily walked to the back of the plane.  

A relatively tall, muscular man with prepossessing features, pale complexion, defined cheekbones, green mesmerizing eyes would not leave my mind. Rylan, fuck, I love you. You always look good in a green flannel and black skinny jeans, especially when I get the opportunity to rip them off of you.

    As I felt the plane dip down, I remembered how...

... our lips touched and I kissed him like it was our last kiss. One of his hands reached up and hauled on the back of my silken hair and the other pulled our bodies closer together. Our tongues continued to wrestle as my hand trailed down his sculpted chest. I was lost in him and his body was a map for me to explore. I let the mattress absorb my moans of pleasure...

    ... I couldn't breathe. Not from the billowing smoke. But from thinking about never seeing his face again. 

   
As I wiped away my final tears and embraced for impact, I shut my eyes.

How can a house withstand the instability of having no foundation?

It cannot.
 

Rylan was my foundation.

 

 

 

    

 

 

All rights belong to its author. It was published on e-Stories.org by demand of Nathaniel Wells.
Published on e-Stories.org on 04/20/2017.

 

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