well darling, you've got me in stitches.

It seemed as though the gravel had become his home, covering his feet and weighing him down. He was convinced that he would no longer move from this spot, staring in to a home that had never been the bearer of his heart. The silhouette of his father moved slowly across the curtains, and the light turned on in such a swift motion that he knew it was his mother, always concerned for the eyesight of his father when he tried to read in the dark. He imagined their gentle banter and the way that the house would feel quiet despite conversation, and he found a part of himself stepping forward and yet no part of him moved. Was it his mind, urging him to rebuild previously severed ties? He thought of the way that their quiet conversation had turned so hostile when they were displeased with his own input. The way that their voices iced over and their eyes became a glaze of nothing more than forced dreams from one generation to the next. He'd chosen love and they'd labeled it lust, demanding that his bank account carry more weight than he was allowing. He thought of the way that their fireplace was always going and how the crackle was supposed to sound like home and growing up, but all he felt was a cold chill when he heard the rocks beneath him. Movement, finally. He allowed his feet to lead by the pull of his heart, and ten minutes later placed him down the block and away from the roof that had nothing but shield him from all that he'd wanted. He'd chosen love, and he wasn't willing to accept the labels that anyone else could place upon it. Perhaps he was young and far too hopeful, but something about the way that a December night could feel so warm gave him the impression that he was doing something right.