Hungarian village in Slovakia gothic
You know who most of the people are. They know who you are. Everyone is a stranger. Except the grandparents.
You see more and more strangers nowadays. You instinctually hate them. You don't know what they are doing in Your home and it bothers you. (it's your home, not theirs, even though you only spend your weekends there, now).
You know two languages by the time you're fourteen - you were taught to despise one and all those who speak it, that on some level they are your enemy, and anyways, they hate you so it's only fair (it wasn't by your teachers but everyone around you), and to love the other, that it is sacred and it is an unreplaceable part of your identity and that They will try to take it away from you. It is unclear who They are.
You grew up knowing that even though this is your home, it was-somehow-taken from you. It was over a hundred years ago. You have to mourn it. You have to. Even your grandparents weren't alive when it happened, but it has to hurt you the same way it hurt everyone then. Otherwise-do you really belong to us?
Behind the community centre are injection needles thrown everywhere. When you were eight, you saw someone sitting there, holding their arm. You didn't quite understand what was happening, but it scared you.
A few years later you can name those from your school who you know deal drugs. You know where they live. You pity them, but don't care much anymore.
Your classmates didn't like you much-but you didn't like them much either, so it was alright. You find out some time later that at least half of them are related to you.
There are statues of saints all over the village. You know what they stand for even though you were never taught about them. There is a Virgin Mary on a road in the middle of the fields. There's also one not far from your house. You hope they will protect you.
The language you speak has words in it that people from two villages over don't understand.
Your grandparents use words you don't understand.
There is a bog in your backyard. Well, more like a lake, but the reeds get closer every year.
The house is decorated with stuffed animal carcasses and deer skulls. Hunting is the only thing you've ever seen your grandfather really care about. You wonder if it has to do something with his military enlistment.
The only thing you ever wanted was to leave here - and it's like the Fields around the village can feel that. Every time you go there, you find something watching you. A hawk, a hare, deers, pheasants. They look directly at you. And don't move.
The Fields - long, empty pieces of land. You know the next village is only five kilometers away. You can't see it. In the summer, when the corn grows tall, it becomes like a wall all around. The canola flowers flood them twice a year - after you pass them, you can't really get the smell out of your nose. For a long while.
You're not fazed by the noise of shotguns - it is hunting season after all. It is always. Be careful when you go into the forest.
Your dad taught you how to shoot with an airgun at ten, for seemingly no reason. You have never been hunting. It's good to know how.
Someone is living in the forest. You've never seen them. Still, be careful. You can never be too careful.
Everyone calls it a forest, but really, it's just a couple of trees most likely planted less than fifty years ago to catch the wind. You can't exactly get lost in them, i mean, most of them are in orderly lines, grown to be cut down later. It's smaller every year.
You were raised to be cruel right from the start. You were praised for killing slugs and frogs and the animals that were unwanted.
You come home from school one day. There is a half-skinned rabbit hanging next to where you always put your bicycle. It will be finished later.
There are always new bones for the dog to chew on. Bigger. More bloody. It still kills the moles that are too slow.
You know the smell of raw meat. It is everywhere in the cellar. You also know how it smells when it's rotting.
There aren't many things to do, anywhere, without going to a city. Most people don't do that. After all, you can drink at home too. Or behind the community house. Or in the forest.
There was a murder a few years ago. You know the house where it happened, you passed it hundreds of times. When you go out with your friends, your mother tells you to be careful. Always more careful.
And don't you smile. You do not get to smile. You should always look at least emotionless. You should be miserable and bitter and pointless like the rest of us decent people
you do not get to remind us of everything we could have been, you have to rot away right here where you were born, you do not get to get out
..................
Come, have a beer. And a pálinka. And another. And another. Another
@mist-the-wannabe-linguist @alexandrintea @thuja-the-gay-monster-lover you get a tag too mert átérzed
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