Part 2: Vagrant
Chapter 1
I went “home.” But it wasn’t home anymore.
The walls were cracked. The air, too loud. The rooms, too full of people who had long since stopped listening.
Old friends with soft voices and open arms welcomed me back, promising shelter, freedom, growth.
But their house was sick.
The structure leaned on secrets—held up by the brittle bones of a broken foundation.
What they offered wasn’t refuge.
It was another illusion. Another trap, dressed up in kindness.
Chapter 2
On the first night, the children screamed, and I shattered.
Not because of the noise—but because it reminded me that I wasn’t grieving Deacon anymore.
I was grieving me.
The version of me that still believed life could bloom again.
I sat in a house full of people and felt more alone than I ever did in silence.
Connection after connection—but no signal. No line out. No one answering.
That house was another circle of Hell.
And its genius wasn’t in torment—it was in seduction.
It whispered: Stay.
This is safety.
This is peace.
But it was prison.
A cage draped in family photos and the illusion of warmth.
I swore I’d leave.
But days turned to weeks. Weeks turned to rot.
And just when I thought it couldn’t get worse—my body betrayed me.