His name was misspelt.
On his gravestone. His name was misspelt. He literally died a mistake. My god. All he wanted to do was come out of the closet. Little did he know that the closet would be opened by the kids at his school without his permission. He was snatched right out of the closet and made a joke of. So many Gay jokes. If only he had a sense of humour. He became the chief conversation at bus stops. His dad got to know about it through a WhatsApp joke.
His dad didn’t find it very funny, either. In fact, his dad blocked that person on WhatsApp.
Imagine how awkward it would have been when the child came back home to his father. Like can you imagine the level of discomfort he would have felt. But the dad made the situation pretty convenient. He just beat the child.
So many bruises, such anger. Worse than the beating, though, were the classroom discussions which was becoming more like Judgement day. The beating he was used to, his father drank more alcohol than water and when there was no alcohol, he got drunk on his son’s blood by beating this fragile fragment of existence the child was, this poor child.
Even cats and dogs maintained their distance from him, as if he was wet trash. What could he do? He didn’t expect this. He never felt more dead. His body had become a lesson about sin and then after a while he just gave up and in no time he was pushed back inside the closet and left with the skeletons. His father left him, his mother left him the second he was born.
His death was an occasion of happiness. Wine was poured and a feast was set. His mother celebrated in Hell. Everyone got free food. His name was misspelt. His fucking name was slept wrong. The one thing attached to his identity that wasn’t targeted while he lived was just misspelt. As simple as that.
What is life, man? What is life?
The good thing was that the child now ruled the closet. The skeletons left behind adored him. He lives in death as a king. Smile, it’s a happy ending.