HE WAS DONE WITH IT. He couldn’t handle it anymore. Once again Mark was in his room feeling depressed and gloomy. His despondency was at the highest level. He couldn’t cry, you see. He was one of the members of the Defo family. Their ability was to be skilled in some sort of defense arts. But till now, even after almost an year of the age, he hadn’t been able to find his talent.
He was keen on trying something new. Anything to find his talent, but till now he had flunked miserably. His parents had told him once that when a Defo finds what he is made for, he or she gets a tattoo on his bicep. Well, Mark hadn’t gotten his and how the things were extricating, he didn’t expect to get one.
Today his mom’s favorite automated quiver conked out and he was the one blamed. Mark wasn’t surprised. This always happened with him. He was neglected in family talks and was the bin to put your blame in. Sometimes he questioned life, other times life questioned him. But during the times he was questioned, all that remained of him was the vulnerable shell of a boy once everyone liked. He never did, or never would, oppugn his family on the treatment he faced. He deserved it. He was the blame bin, but not only for his family. He was the blame bin for himself.
Defo family was meant to be peculiarly tough and stiff, mentally, physically and particularly emotionally, but Mark was bending under the force. He had been that strong for too long. The pain he felt was unimaginable. The family who had loved him dearly and showed him affection at every point in his life had been distant and harsh to him the past year. He felt broken and hollow. It was either that their warmheartedness was gone, or that he deserved it. He hoped it was the former knowing it was the latter. He opened the Defo family cyclopaedia, a term his father had coined, his favorite past time. He glazed through it with unfocused eyes, his ind still pondering on the living hell he had been in the last year. The family cyclopaedia literally had every single memory of the family. Every Defo had a copy and fortunately he did too. After he had surpassed the required age and everyone had started treating him like a nobody, he had made a plan he never executed. But he felt it was time to.
So he indited a letter, no letters, knowing that his will would not be ephemeral. The epistolary of letters were directed to each of his family members. His mom, dad, sister, all for his cousins, which were a lot, and his aunts and uncles. It took him two hours to be done with all of them but he knew he won’t be interrupted midway because they didn’t even care about him and only talked to him when they wanted some work done. After being done with them, he sighed in relief and packed his bag.
Mark was going to leave the house, his decision final, his will unbreakable. He didn’t contemplate whether he would regret it later on.
All of the letters were stacked in one place and his bag ready to face any catastrophe with him like partners, having, what he thought, everything necessary for his survival and sanity. He threw the unraveled rope down the window and climbed down. You see, even though he did not have a talent, he still had the strong built of any Defo. His muscles, though not herculean, were big enough for the street thugs to think twice about mugging him. He was the second-strongest in his family and he surely looked like one. His chest swollen, not with pride but with muscles, and his eight pack abs evidently visible through the tenuous cloth of the tees he wore.
As he walked away from the house that was once his own, he couldn’t help but ponder upon the past and try to anticipate his unraveling destiny. Yes he didn’t cry, but that didn’t mean he had no emotions. Mark felt like curling into a ball and screaming till his throat went dry. Sometimes being tough was too much. Sometimes it would have been better to let emotions loose. He wished he had one person who he could emote his sentiments to. One person who would have endorsed to what he felt. A person who would have helped in the eradication of his negative feelings.
Yes he didn’t have tear glands, but he had a heart. Broken, but there.