Dead Eyes See No Future(Scott Michael Davison) Joey lay there lifeless on top of the old mattress that was pushed against the far corner wall. Head tilted to one side he stares directly at me as if asking the question … why?

Sitting on top of an empty blue Lego storage box, I begin looking around, remembering … remembering when things were not so complicated. These now bare walls rifled with nail holes from framed art works of finger-paints and crayons tell a hundred joyful stories of tickle fights and hand shadows. Of bed sheet camp outs and reading scary bedtime stories. Of sneaking ice cream sandwiches into the closet just before dinner, closing the door and eating them quickly to avoid my wife’s scolding.

Painted a soft hue of orange and yellow these walls glowed bright when the sun shined. Christmas lights strung year round made it somehow feel magical and safe, like living at Disneyworld.

However, sometimes alone in that room, I would sit on the bed trying to silence the warped and twisted thoughts these demons in my head would whisper. Thoughts keeping me from enjoying feelings of affection and happiness and love like everyone else. Each time resisting cutting myself again in order to feel … to feel anything.

Startled by my three year old son Jeremy walking into the room, I am dragged back into the present reality. Like the sudden shock of an old filmstrip ending, my eyes are blinded by the horror surrounding me. The Lego box morphs into an old rusty bucket before my eyes. The beautiful orange glow is replaced by ripped patches of water-logged wallpaper, and nail holes become shotgun holes from bored vandals.

From outside the broken window I hear my wife yell, “Come on! We have to go now. I can hear the sirens coming”, as she places the last box of clothes into the now packed car.

Forcing a smile I calmly look down at Jeremy and say, “Ok, grab Joey and let’s go.”

Jeremy reaches for his favorite stuffed animal Joey, a bright yellow horse, now faded with bleached white eyes from too many soapy baths in the rust-stained tub of the last house we squatted in. Knowing I don’t like him, Joey says it’s my fault. I try to ignore him, but that sound … that unnerving sound from the rattle inside him makes me hate myself. And the way he stares at me …

With one quick motion I pick up Jeremy and Joey and head towards the doorless opening, stopping only briefly to maneuver around broken glass and distorted metal shelves lying on their side. The sunlight from the large holes in the roof guide my way past endless piles of old newspapers and ripped plastic sheets dangling from the ceiling used as curtains. Kicking empty cardboard boxes out of the way as I exit through the collapsed front porch, I hand Jeremy to his mom who buckles him tightly into his car seat.

In an instant we are gone.

“That house wouldn’t have worked out anyway”, my wife blurts out after several minutes of silence. “It would have taken too much effort to make it livable. We’ll find another one … we always do.” Reaching over she touches my hand in an effort to reassure me that my overwhelming guilt and pain of our homelessness is unnecessary.

But like Joey, I know otherwise.

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