Up There

No space could contain his thoughts like the dusty attic wedged with books in his humble home. He only had to climb the shelves in his bedroom, above the headboard and he'd be in his haven - his only. He'd then crouch behind the old cardboard box that once held a possession. 

The dust up there, he thought was like everyone's thoughts. But he, he knew was like the dust that clung to the books; whose essence would remain even after dusting off the book - every page carrying its essence, unlike the visible and omnipresent dust that traversed precariously in the attic. 

He would sit here for hours closing his eyes and talking to the demons in his head, making sure he gave a shape and face to them. Then, eliminating them would be easier. Anyway, did he care for people? Or did he? Nah! Not more than they did.

The attic was his fortress from the uncle who tugged at his shorts as a child. Then the kids down the street who'd ridicule him calling him a fat bookworm. Ah! yes! He sinned by becoming fat first then losing his dad. Then finding him again and again and again and again. Well, he eventually got bored of them and didn't care about those that followed afterwards, nor the child born with none of the string of men around, none that his mum had brought to her chamber. Of-course it didn't matter. No. Nothing mattered when he was up there. 

He'd spend long hours up there erasing the evil in his head while the happenings in the world below - a wail or a cooker's whistle, though reaching his ear would remain inaudible.

Having fought the devil, and giving him his due, he'd return to be the perfect gentleman, dutiful son and the doting brother - more than making up for his disappearance from ground zero. No sign of the torment tearing him apart would show; just like he trained himself to be, nor a misplaced emotion or a crack in his demeanor would mar the farce he'd put. Yet, if anyone cared enough to do so, they'd see a tall fortress but unfortified and a vulnerable people left at its wake.