Narrated from a 9 year old orphan:

I was ready to be welcomed into my new family, the Smiths, having endured many years, 3 years since I was 6, at a Chinese orphanage. The adoptive family’s house was huge, 3 floors even and modern, and part of a very comfortable neighborhood: in the suburbs of Georgia, and coming from an intrinsically different country, I resolved to make familiar the smallest spaces such as the newly decorated living rooms and dissosoviate front the political difference into which I had been thrust into.

The mom and the dad told me that they were unspeakably excited to raise a child together to fill an empty space in their lives, they did not know each other so well as to be companionshiply attached and my future was their greatest joy in enterprising towards, the hope of which filled all gaps between the mother and the father, as well as the new belonging in the family which was me, was pulled into their warm accordance and unknowing anticipation evaporating through our supposedly true bonding self strengthening; there would be no fear in this category of mediocre socializing, after I found that they were rather straightforward. No fear in the vistas of America which was so much tamer in interaction than the bustles and orders of China, and American intentions seemed rather a flavor than a subject I was in lack of contemplation flitting back and forth between search and awareness, and some leaning punishment of unawareness over me.

I slept in one of their sofas for the duration was just suffering, 3 and a half successive days of compensating my first jet lag experience ever. When I woke up, it was with the most intentional introduction ever, which the father excitedly shared that he had Chinese genes as well, and tested to be a little over 20 percent. The mother sighed, and shared also that she, although it looked like to me one of those Irish Americans she had about 5 percent in Chinese, and I secretly wondered if these softer edges around her face were because of, her proclaimed Chinese makeup. The second bounds towards, partial familiarity, was, there names, as I was really desperately excited to know which of these English names they possessed, and I hoped they were unique because besides Tom and John I did not really know, just heard that Americans were extremely indifferent to function in identity like harsh scores and ranking in the Gao Kao and allowed themselves to be rather creative and their naming, the names, and what was called the strange products in their commerce and retail I saw in the metropolis. From China my online research of course, and I was obscenely drawn to the actual sights of America which pertained to its sales I could reach, and confirm my memories which were vague back in the old country.

Part 2: About me, about me, before

Yes my extreme feelings were still housed in certainty and fact, never to reach any bouts of insanity, attemptedness, or instability of structure… here is my own foreshadowing

Suddenly, I realized the adoption is a scam, and any random individuals could find another to present as a two person company obsequiously sharing themselves with a child, and think just miraculously that the hurdle of safety was that they were entirely self-motivated. Cross over these two sided contradictions in one’s mind, the hate a parent self absorbed when they were supposed to love the child more than themselves, who would take this upon themselves and make such a more occupying and controlling over one’s default freedom, this was truly a conundrum. But the fact that these two people Mother and Father were in total being risking this demeanor, actually persona for their undeserved freedom, after being banished by society, this was what made the current part of my life, worth a real story.

I did not know the true logic of the homeless, what enabled them to be underwater for the length of eternal time they did, but never asked because of a child’s fear of offense, which could be disquieting to all adults who gatekeeper the secrets of what were adult gates and allowed the truth of horror to seep in ways either disadvantage to children and cause only fear, or receptive in a way compatible with their current knowledge and curiosity and completely transformative to complete the child’s imagination. If any imagination could be challenged in me now, it would truly fall short of what is possible to happen in any possible severity. That’s just the fact able to be made apparent to me if it wafted into the front of my little 9 year old’s world at the time, this was long ago. I’m telling it now to share that, my ignorance was not defenseless, rather limited, and capable of a great stretch in realization with self growing rationalization: I knew nothing about adult life, adult adventurousness, or adult adversities.

Part 3: dark, darker, and darker

The house at the end of the street had been boarded up for at least five years, as I asked one of the neighbors on the street when I was riding my scooter. For whatever reason, I decided to see more closely what was inside. One day, when I pressed my ear to one of the creaks, cracks, whatever it was called, I heard some squishing and coughing inside. Being just a child, I thought maybe some small animals like rats and raccoons or squirrels were inhaling the dust and grime inside on the regular, and coughing them up because their poor lungs were getting sick. Some of the coughs were so loud and stark they sounded like that of an old man, but any animal could be suffering the same or worse because of the conditions they were living out inside the dark house. Being fascinated in small lives in general, imagining through progressions the intelligence of little children unfolding through the natural transpirations of school years unfolding and acquirements of language both coarse and touching on unfounded dark subjects, I also imagined the life of the small rodents and full on raccoons (the most nearby mammals you can find! without having to drive 30 miles out to the regional zoo). I wanted to hold in my arms a real raccoon, with a real raccoon’s brain functioning as such, and throw it upon the ground in exasperation and denial, that proclaimed itself in a not weakling emotion, to be an outburst of happiness.

When I started school the next month, I was so excited to share my superior English acquirement I had learned from the orphanage schoolings. To my surprise, some of the other students were already talking about rumors about the boarded up house on the end of my street. They said scum; and I thought it was the scum of society meaning trash pollution and offensive topics printed out rolled out like tumbleweed into the dark niche on the house, but that extremely horrific individuals disclaimed in consciousness by all others, who comfortably fell into society with the comfort of a never before mistake watched these lump men and lumped women roll about in dark houses like these, because it was far away from the detection of the county shelters, and such, in which they watched each other in acute experience of the reason that followed each one, and uniquely so, to be sheltered and defended by, justly uncaring people. What could the parents I had received have ever to do with the insides of the house, when they were, as they were talking to me in a unquestionable psedo American with those Americanly common Chinese characters mixed in to my confusion in which part of these peoples objective culture made these prompts so regular to me and everyone around who shared like an indestiguidable betwee the back and forth of toss what these peoples words of motherly and fatherly could loom aloft in the air, without question of what their nonsense pressing Chinese ways that could be answered with refute. What was to come was crazy, and happened deservedly unfurled more shortly than the prior narration you have read so far.

Part 4: an enemy of the people

It turns out, to fact instead of my successive realization in this point of the plot, that those missing inhabitancies the inanimate house couldn’t through a lack of human direction find, Mother and Father were two of all those. Like scavengers, they had thrived and bounded together like two wilderness-made creatures intertwining in strange letter formations, each day a different symbol of the alphabet as what their strange tyranness would latch on to, a new large home, a new family of remote connections, or an addition, a mere addition their forked speech managed to express, a pool to swim in, as close as possible to the standing home. They held hands, how they found out how to do that, was not a simple story: they watched from that earning destination, that frivolous and foreboding destination when all other abodes were underneath in dignity to this boarded home, and watched old couples, a sister and a caring younger brother; or, a caring sister and a younger brother, it was always a modifier modifying one of them only. They fought off the fear that hung around the shoulders of the others, as they could not reach with their fertile hands to grab and grapple off their owns. Fear and mighty, although this prompt is really nonsensical with no boundaries, I just wanted to give you a metaphor with this, that they would always interpret it as an animal's fear and that they were mighty to grab the little mightiness that might emerge from the smooth, tight coils, of the other being. They were scavengers, who knew attack differently than people like me and you, after, and because they had lived in the wild for a fractional portion of their lives, thus so far, and if comfort's eternity laid bare out in front of them, it would take a time of waiting that could not outlast despair for them to change at all within their natures, which were negatively something I could not find a word for, and which upon them doing, you would assume to be called vicious.

Mother was really smart. She used smarts to do bad things, and believe me, she had this permanent ability to be smart. She was the one, who had the miraculous idea that never took root and Father in a hundred years far back in the past and forwards in the present, two hundred years in total, maybe, that crossed the percussion of legalities and formalities and led them straight into the enabling of a clean body and costume. Mother had lived in that boarded up home for more than 5 years, and Father more than 3 years, and in the 3 years they lived there in common, Mother and Father were a true union.

Mother was seeking freedom in her new role. She had passed through a secret tunnel with formal entrance in one of those scarce villages in China, and walked, drove, and walked, and even there were smaller spacecrafts the current legality claimed its size and power were not allowed to exist. This was the secret existence which after being used passed through the invisible hole of adoption, foreign detainment of adoption, and the very idea of adoption as one's parents having the child and the child being haven. As far as reputation goes, Mother was a wonderful cellist, meaning that not she was an American nerd playing those single chord open string pop songs on the cello, but she had practiced the Popper etudes 6, 10, and 22, she played at least 3 great concertos, Elgar, Haydn, Shostakovich, whatever, and she was escaping the persecution of being a lobotomist who derailed the psychological journey of her patients, who just so happened to be her enemies. Lobotomy was not legal, but what drew her into the business was the ability to scan patterns which would reveal some confirmation with reality of what they were thinking, as parts of their lives and sparks of neural patterns and judgments happened to coincide in topic with existences in their personal lives. If she could only reliably decode these two factors to have a most conducive method of finding similarities and vague boundaries as to what some of their close to being able to confirmed aspects of their thoughts were, and what their subjective content was by an ingenious and reliable method confirmed that the quality of that area of ideation was subjecting and subjective, differentiated between the two based on brain activity being analyzed qualitatively. Mother wanted to see what was inside her enemies' brains, so that she could gain security in knowing that they were kept beneath in level of intellect.

Now that was the vast intellectual portion of Mother's constant availability, she had maliciousness with expansive intelligence, in my opinion. First, Mother was accused in my homeland of being a dangerous and constantly faulty lobotomist, that the business she chose to be a miniscule part of was so illegal and hideous to the public that the news altogether was disclosed privately. As silently as possible.

It was for this motive, scientific, scientific motive that she chose to perform on me. The realm I needed to escape was the home. The big white house I had been belonging-ed to. The father was with or without coalition with the mother, I did not know, and represent the unknowning at the time with the lack of disclosure to the reader of this.

I was already feeling that the lack of check ins from my orphanage, or the indescreet, underlying assumption that the overseas homeliness was only a temporary, for-the-time evaluation, and that the connection was lost in the transfer of hands.

The content of horror exposed to my young life was more than my words or capacity for sentences at that time could withold. This woman was reading out words from my brains very imprinting itself and looking to me as if the blatant fact was impressed on to me, then impressed over my verbal readiness to silence me with realization, and not even the empathy of shock was available. As the wire coil I had been messing around with grew brighter to my visions, my mortal and temporary eyes which I could only squint with to check my awakeness to what I had heard and withstood normal vision with, I began to wonder if my consequent sadness and hurting shock was a product of mortal shock that could kill my senses altogether if the manifestation grew with respect to the content of averted divine truth breaking out in reverse, the immortal breaking through with spouts of remembrance and distaste while knowing me all to closely, managed to reveal this in mortal, temporary, and logic-driven words that were chosen, one by one, as superficial as a string of beads spaced out between grouped letters, like those American friendship bracelets.

Technology, technology, technology, I thought in words, real words. There must be some truth to the technology Mother was using, and since Father was sleeping and silent for sure, he must be submissive to Mother. I knew my friend Min was a great programmer, and that he was studying hard as possible to get a job at an American firm in the IT department, at the 'big names' as I had just heard reporters in TV use this phrase, like Microsoft and Intel. Experiment, this was just a word I learned to school and the functions it emcompassed were understated to be the core of the expanse of science, whatever this subject word meant, however, the history of these science guys and what they achieved in humanity in an instant required the imagination of dunking this officious, inhumanly cohesive tale of impossible longevity, impossible length of coil, underwater, and I did, I dunked, until it was drowned without any reverb, or on the only alternative, spoken retaliation.

I drew out the beads into a rare word, letter by letter, and thought of some other pertinent word in my head related to my true intention of leaving this house, no, fleeing the mother, and see what kind of effect it would produce on Mother's worry, and actual action out of concern, it "would" require to happen. She came into my room with a string of beads with the next word I had in mind that I was not spelling, part of my escape plan. How was I ever supposed to expose her secret which was not even a quiet voice in her head, if she knew all the threads and intertwinings of mine, and I was truly trapped in a way that could not use a modifier for the degree of entrapment as the oppression was twice fold, her knowing mine, and her knowing that I wanted to expose her. I was trapped, and trapped in trapped under. There was no way I could win. Automatic defeat.