He hadn't been raised wrong. He hadn't been abused or tortured or rendered helpless in his youth. His mother had loved him, and he'd known this. But he hadn't been able to deal with his own fallacies. His own ego had devoured him, and like a child, he had rebelled in the worst possible way. He'd thrown stones and kicked and screamed. He had harmed others, without sympathy. He had wanted to become a wicked beast like his father, feared and reviled—for what boy does not wish to emulate his own sire?
In the end, like the coward he was, he'd run away rather than facing the things that he'd done. He'd wandered, chasing away anyone and everything that dared touch him. But for a brief time—so brief now, in restrospect—he had found something akin to love and belonging. Calypso had been his first. He had grown unreasonably fond of the boy—fonder than he could ever become of a woman. And afterward he had found another. He'd writhed inwardly, knowing. He'd hated himself, and he still did to this day, though the passion had slipped into apathy over the years.
He would never be the type of son that his mother had wanted. He was merely a fucked up worm of a man, crawling in the mud on his hands and knees. He stared back in defiance as the woman spoke, attempting to pretend that he had some pride, and even an ounce of self-respect. “Perhaps I'd enjoy it,” he said, his words riddled with derision. He hated this woman on principle alone, and for nothing more than her tone of voice. He wasn't seeking acceptance anywhere. He wasn't looking for a home here, or anywhere else.
He already knew that he belonged nowhere.
He didn't need her to remind him.