Home is where the heart is.

He turned away. That, out there, was hell: a place devoid of human compassion, or humanity for that matter. It was a darkness that had taken over his core and left him a lazy puppet to his own misery. A single emblem stood that told the story of his existence. Sitting upon the counter, colored yellow with the wear of the years sat a small sign: "Home is where the heart is." Was, he thought to himself. At first glance, it was just another piece of fake art, in a world full of fake things: a carpet of color long forgotten, walls belying protection from the elements, a little plate tinged with dust, losing its color and its heart as he stood there watching. However, this was the view of a outsider. He knew better. This one was special. It was hand crafted on stone imported from a quarry in Italy, the only place in the world where this stone could be found. It had taken years of gentle patience and warming to make this stone, the heat and pressure in the Earth's crust had gently molded it into the glory that it is. No. The glory that it was. The shiny white surface had been decorated with the gentle strokes of an experienced hand. He had visited shortly after he bought his first house. A nice villa overlooking the mountains, a place of calm, quiet resolve that reflected his own rise up the societal ranks. He was born of this darkness, but had been molded into a gentle form that burned brightly, perhaps too brightly. That is after all how he ended up back here, he gently melted away and returned to a pile of wax, devoid of form, devoid of passion, without body and spirit. His life was one of prophetic existence: from ashes to ashes and dust to dust. He was destined to live with pomp and circumstance and die with a small, silent whimper.

Origins

As he gazed down on what could have very well been the sad street corner where he had been born, a single Filet-O-Fish wrapper drifted on by, carried by currents of air as invisible as the people who called this pitiful scrap of land home. That there was trash everywhere was not a revelation. There was always trash lying around: paper, plastic, or flesh, but lifeless all the same. Every so often, the plaintive wail of a newborn child pierced the dank air, giving the alley a sorely needed spark of life. But this burst of energy that spurred the limbs of the worn-down and beaten bodies scattered across the neighborhood lasted but a second, as fleeting as a child's life was likely to be in this concrete jungle; a solitary flash in a pan of ooze and darkness. The children quickly learned to emulate the lethargy and stupor that engulfed them from the moment they entered this cruel world. Though the sun occasionally filtered through the rusty, dilapidated boards of buildings barely holding together, none of the light was reflected in the eyes that seemed to peek out from every shadow. Strangers who had the misfortune of wandering into this land-locked bermuda triangle could only hope they were lucky enough to make it back out with their hopes and dreams still intact. As for those born to the sorrow and hopelessness that pervaded not only the people, but the very cobblestones on which they walked, it would take nothing short of an Act of God for one of them to make it out alive. But what God giveth, God taketh away as well, if only to remind the slum people of their proper place in the world.

And so it begins...

They claimed the apartment had a view. Some view. Below the fire escape of a balcony, the darkness of a deserted alley emanated a putrid odor that could only be described as death. The whole city was a wasteland, like something out of an old black and white horror movie. Overcast on all but the most fortuitous days, the sky was eternally ominously gray. Solitary pieces of paper fluttered from side to side as if afraid to attract the attention of a solitary passerby. But though there were never any stray pedestrians in this area of town, people nevertheless shied away from distinguishing themselves for fear of catching someone, anyone’s attention. Sometimes, if you were lucky, you could smell the sweet smell of the sugary treats being baked down the street. Kids gathered from miles around, lining the alley below in a single spontaneous moment of eager anticipation. But with the moment vanished the eager innocence and carefree civility of the children. Within seconds, the alley would be filled with a throng of slavering, slobbering hyenas, eager for their own chance at the small slice of heaven that the sweet smell portended. When all the treats were gone and the sweet smell had been replaced by the same putrid odor, only stronger, the alley once again resumed its lonely solitary existence only a few red stains worse for the wear. How different this life was from the one he had imagined.