The Truth

I’m in a dark hole. Serious question marks over how I got here in the first place but I’m doing my best not to overthink it. A straw-like object is attached to my abdomen and it’s supposed to keep me alive even though it tries to strangle me every now and then (Must have been the work of a part-time plumber). It seems sufficient though because, at the very least, I’m alive! Then comes the part. Just as I accept the hole as my home, I suddenly feel a tug at my legs. What is happening?

As I get pulled, I pull back, almost instinctively. I had become accustomed to my fishy smelled abode and nobody was getting me out of it without a fight. The struggle continued and I started to feel weak, as I realize I was losing the battle on two fronts. Not only were my legs being pulled aggressively, but the hole also seemed to be doing her part in trying to eject me. I might as well give in. Succumb.

I let go and swiftly, the air around me changes. It’s hot and humid and I’m greeted to a warm round of applause. The hell are they clapping for? It wasn’t much of a contest anyways. Some idiot decided to slap my arse and shit that hurt! Of Course! I start crying! Wait a minute? What is that voice? As I weep for my beloved self, these psychopaths have the nerve to start singing. Astounding.

I haven’t spoken in months, in fact for the first few weeks I couldn’t see a thing! A long while later, the fog cleared and I began to see shapes. Every once in a while when I feel a pang in my belly, I instinctively open my mouth to weep (as was now my accustomed practice, you don’t change a winning formula), and someone immediately sticks a throw pillow, the size of my head with a pointy shaped nozzle into my mouth. I latch on and suckle on it. Survival.

The result at first is a complete disaster! It’s not milk, neither is it tea, it’s not solid, neither is it liquid. I’m not privy to any other options and I’m dying slowly so I don’t complain and get on with it. This cycle continues to repeat itself for as long as I can remember. One fateful day, thankfully, it was agreed that I didn’t have to take only semi-liquids. I was introduced to new solids and semi-solid substances to deal with the pangs. Variation.

I’ve become a bit familiar with my captors. I still harbor a bit of resentment towards them, after all, they’re the ones who instructed that I should be pulled out of the hole. Why they would decide to rescue a person that didn’t need any rescuing and/or ask to be rescued is something I can’t fathom. They have given me a name, sadly without consulting me, the bearer, a grave injustice. I believe it will be revisited in the near future. Justice.

As time passed, I started to behave like my captors. I imitated the way they talked and walked. As their slave, I didn’t have much of a choice. They quite simply held all the cards. I tried and failed to negotiate an escape with some others I happened to come across, landing myself in hot water. I twice even tried to escape myself, in search of my beloved hole, but things didn’t quite click and it’s been over twenty rainy seasons since then. Elude.

Today, I’m still searching for that dark fishy hole. Sometimes I pick up tins of canned food just to inhale and reminisce of what might have been. The grass certainly hasn’t been any greener since I was sacked from the hole. The truth? I should have never left the hole.

Or is this destiny?