when i think of home, i think mostly of the flame world.. specifically the place i usually call the old town. the flame world was divided into two main living areas, the main town, where most demons from the military lived, along with the other few who actually made society run like it relatively should.. and the old town. while the main town was liveable and had resources, the same couldn't be said for the place where i came from. it was falling apart, crammed, everyone in there was miserable. we didn't have resources of our own, as in supplied by the Devil, so we had to improvise. and even then, it's not like all of us were able to. most kids were orphans whose parents died from being hunted by gangs, making us turn to them as we had no other choice. it was an endless cycle, and if you were weak, or god forbid, disabled (like i was), you'd serve as a punching bag for everyone around you. and i hated it. i mean of course i did. i was suffering and struggling to survive every day. and yet, when i think of home, i think of those dirty streets, wounds too big for my body that refused to close, as i was sitting on a dark alley praying that they would not find me, and miserable people passing and looking at this even more miserable child that they could do nothing to help.
it's strange, really, because i've had better homes than that god awful place. even then, i was able to move to the main town later! then why is that? i can only assume growing up there messed my sense of self. i wasn't deserving of that better life i had, i wasn't strong enough, a cowardly child, forever stained by the place i was born, forever a reflection of the ugly and undesirable parts of our society.