There is a house in Georgia that sits on a field of bull thistle and dry crabgrass. This house is the only one for miles, now homing stray cats and the occasional field mouse. This house used to belong to a family. A family with a boy. But the father moved, the mother had passed, and the boy grew. He grew into a man. And one day, that man decided to come home. He pulled up to the house, seeing the holes in the wood and the cracks in the paint. 

He climbed out of the car, with little recognition for what was before him. The house did not recognize him either, standing still and ambivalent. He had grown much since they had last seen each other. He was now tall, with straw blonde hair that went around in all directions. He was thin and muscular, the result of long days outside, his cheeks and chin lined with light stubble and his eyes were a piercing dark brown. So dark, it was almost as if they were black.

The young man took a seat on his once porch, stumbling slightly. It was clear he had come intoxicated. The tired wood groaned under his weight. With a sigh, he took out a flask hidden in the inside pocket of his jacket. He took a sip and looked at the world before him. His stomach churned, and the house did nothing to soothe him. He tried not to think, but memories kept popping up until it was too much. And so, he spoke. 

"You see," he began, "I tried ma… I really did." His speech slurred, and he raised the bottle to the setting sun. "I'd been fixin' us out here for years…" He seemed to choke on his tongue. It felt too big for his mouth, twirling and twisting oddly. It tripped up his words, and soon, he bit too hard, causing a steady stream of blood to trickle down his chin. He set down the flask.

"I never wanted you to be left with him, ma." Tears swelled in his eyes, threatening to come down. His voice began to raise. At first, crackly and unsteady, but he soon found his strength. "With his greedy fuckin' hands, n' fat face, those beady little eyes always demanding for more, n’ more, n’-" He choked on his tears. He coughed and coughed until he felt nauseous. "I don't wanna be like 'im, ma. I can't be like 'im." 

His voice was a whisper, retracing his steps, and trying to find a sane man inside. The house sat protectively in favor of the boy it once knew. Could it move, it would find its way to wrap wooden arms around him, and would coax and comfort him like his mother used to. The man eventually gave up searching for some sanity. He, instead, began picking at his hands. He peeled, prodded, and poked until his nail beds began to bleed. "Shit." He murmured. The word felt so good, so exhilarating. So he didn't stop. “Shit, shit shit!” He began to chuckle, repeating himself. It made him feel light-headed, and it wasn't long before he felt like a child again. At first, he was giddy, but then the unwelcome memories flooded back in. 

He was now the same young boy, watching his father push his mother around. He thought of her blue dress, her favorite dress, and how one night she was beat until it got covered in blood. He thought of her leaning over the sink, sobbing, trying to scrub out the red. He felt sick. His vision blurred as his stomach screamed. The weight of his head was suddenly too much for his neck to carry. It boiled and built inside of him, until he couldn’t control it anymore. 

He retched, purging himself of the memories. The vomit stung, falling onto his lap. He wiped off his face, feeling disgusted with himself. "You see, ma…" he muttered. "I'm not always like this… I’m not, I’m really not, I-” He paused, trying to compose himself. “You see, I, uh… I got a girl. When I first met Mary, well…" he smiled. "I reckon she was the prettiest thing I'd ever seen. She was wearing a blue dress, not unlike yers…" He picked up the flask, gulping down the rest of it. "So we married. N' we don't have no little 'uns yet, but… well, I don't know, ma." He gulped. "N' I wanna make you proud. I… I wanna do right by you, but I gotta tell you somethin'..." 

His voice trailed off, his hands now shaking. "I came home pissed one night. Worse than I'm now. N' I did somethin' I shouldn't have." The lump in his throat grew until it consumed him, his pace hastening. "You see ma, I… I beat her. Real bad. Just like he did you. N' as she begged, and cried, I felt nothin'! I just kept going n’ going until my arms hurt n’ my fists were bruised n’ covered in blood!” He coughed up tears, snot trickling onto his upper lip. “But, ma… I ain’t no monster. I swears. I…” He paused again. “You see, before I went to bed, when I was a bit soberer, I looked in the mirror. N' I swear, I saw pa looking straight at me."

He picked up the flask, shaking it about, praying for some whiskey to come back to him. He paused for a moment, frozen in time. Peaceful. But he remembered where he was, and why he was there. It didn't do him any favors. "Goddammit!" He yelled, tossing the container into the field. "I don't wanna be like 'im!" He didn't stop screaming until his throat was raw, and his eyes were dry. "I… I…” He couldn’t find anything to say. No apology, no explanation. “I gotta get home now, ma." He whispered.

He stood up, his legs shaking. They felt obsolete, seldomly carrying him. He stumbled to his truck, falling into the driver's seat. With unsteady hands, he put his key in the ignition and drove off into the night. The house lay, knowing his anger, his frustration, and not seeing how the little boy could've turned into that man. 

There is a house in Georgia that sits on a field of bull thistle and dry crabgrass. And there is a house in Georgia who now mourns a young man.