hey this is 710 i think. may have counted wrong. I just wrote this in the past 50 ish minutes. I personally don't think its that good but hey, whatever we'll try. His mother always said they were thinking of his best interests. He was different. He would never fit in. He was mute. It wasn’t always like this. It started when he was 5. It wasn’t his fault so why should he be punished? He went to school for one year. Kindergarten. Then it happened. During the summer between Kindergarten and First Grade. He remember thinking “If only I had someone I could trust. Someone I could tell the reason to.” Instead his father made him stay in the cellar. When he was a teenager he just wanted to feel like someone loved him. He wanted to feel human touch again but this time he needed love, not just lust. He found love from his mother but that doesn‘t feel the same as the lover you feel as you hold someone close to you in your arms. All he got from his father was pain. Over and over. Maya Angelou was mute as a child. Look where she ended up. There was bookshelf upon bookshelf in the basement and he read it all, most of it contemporary fiction. He was sad when Vito Corleone was shot in the streets. He was joyous when Miracle Max decide he would made the cure to Westley’s problem. He sympathized with Custis. He wasn’t convinced when Jesus rose from the dead. He was reading Nausea by Jean-Paul Sartre when he started to hear his favorite noise. The tapping of rain on the cellar door. A storm was coming. He loved storms, they cleansed the world of the filth that inhabited the earth. He wished that was a metaphor and not just literal. The noise was so calming, he could sit back and reflect on himself. On his life. Or what there was of his life. “Look at him, he’s reading again!” His father shouts as he swats The Stranger out of Devon’s hands. Devon tries to protest but to no avail. “I’ve told you before boy, there is no need for you to read these books. These are for people who are going to make something of their lives.” “Harold! Don’t be so mean to him. He’s your son.” “Don’t you talk back to me woman!” “Harold! Lets just sit down. Wait this storm out. Please. It‘ll shouldn‘t be much longer.” By the sounds of it they had been fighting for a little while before hand. Five minutes pass. Then ten. Then twenty. “I thought you said this would be over soon?” “I did but I don’t control the weather. That’s God’s job.” Devon laughed to himself about the concept of God. How could these people belief that there could be some omnipotent force controlling every aspect of their life? He wanted to shout “If God is controlling this why doesn’t he stop it? Why doesn’t he stop war? Why doesn’t he stop hunger? Why doesn’t he stop all the things I’ve read about it books? Why doesn’t he stop the pain that we all feel? Why doesn’t he stop death?” Being A Philosophical Thinker 101: You must accept your own mortality. The storm continued raging for hours more. Harold and Robin’s fighting continued for the same amount of time. Suddenly the rain stopped. Devon sprung to his feet and ran to the door. “Boy, don’t go out there, its just a calm minute.” Devon kept walking. “Boy, are you deaf now too?!” Devon knew about the eye of the storm. Of course he did. He’d read Encylopedia Brittanica. He’d read NOAA reports. He read the Journal of Atmospheric Sciences. He opened the cellar doors and walked out into the farmland surrounding the house. There was the sky. He hadn’t seen it in 9 years. The trees were as beautiful as he remembered them. And his mother’s garden. Destroyed by the storm but still, there can be beauty found in destruction. He heard the rain again. It was coming up behind him. He stretched his arms out and welcomed the unknown. Moments later he blacked out and that was the last thing he ever experienced. There was no heaven for his mother who loved him. There was no hell for his father who never loved him, only used him. And there was nothing for him.