Forever the dunce. L.J. pt1.

Across the way, on the merry go round in the park, is a boy of scrawny stature. Picked on, and beat up, bullied to the point of tears.
               8 years old, this boy wanders without guidance. No adults to look up to, no parents to love on him. Wandering aimlessly, he is on a search. For right and wrong. The good examples to follow.
              Ever wandering, in the Dust Bowl, Ghost Town, Whereverville USA. In the tiny pocket, packed away deep, in the deepest crevice of my mind. Hidden in the safely and confines, where, not a soul can inflict harm, upon him.
             Adorned in holy sneakers, big toe protruding, dusty blue jeans, worn and dirty from a lack of wash, his grey tee shirt and ball cap. Musty and tattered, an overall lack of hygiene,  for nobody taught him. Skinny, and starved for love and affection.
             To look upon his brown tinged face, the river beds of tears, sandwiched by dirt, from years of neglect. Face ever wet, this boy knows nothing of happiness. A hug. A kind word of positive reinforcement. A handful of fingers, ran through his hair; just a small token of affection, showing that someone cares.
            As he walks from the park, across the broken, pot holy street, a loss of footing causing him to twist his ankle in the most excruciating of ways, and yet, just a small whimper. A lone tear rolls a new groove in the dirt, turning to mud before it hit his chin. "Toughen up Jason, you can't show weakness." The words reverberate through his fragile, yet damaged, medicated mind. The after thoughts of a wasted youth.
           Limping along, as though oblivious to his pain, sore ankle and all, he struts across the street. As he gripped the door knob, he directs gaze behind him, skyward, as the dismal grey, dust stormy horizon, and he drops another tear, muddied fast, by the grime on his pain wretched face.
           Heaving a long, sorrowful sigh, he turns and walks beyond the threshold, back slumped and shoulders dropped, by the weight of depression. "You'll regret that bad posture, later in life." Nobody told him, ever, as he meanders, heals dragging across the dirty, black, hardwood floor.
           To the far corner, of the would be dining room he goes, ever reminded of the dinner table that was never there. The family dinners, that he so craved, to quench the emptiness in his heart, and always hungry soul.
           The thirty year old, wrapped 8 year old boy, back against the corner, he slides down the wall, until plop. Butt on floor. Arms wrapped around his legs, he ewaches for his only memento of familiarity. His one token of a life past.
           He puts his dunce cap upon his head as his torso slopes, and he begins to sob.