At the age of 8 years old, this boy, Floyd, had been isolated from society for the first half of his life, with a particularly icky skin Condition called Icotosicky Syndrome. This was a horrid little condition where-as, with any form of human contact, the recipient of said physical connection would there-in result in the flesh boiling and then melting right from their bones.
So it had been four grueling years, for all intents and purposes, that he had raised himself; he’d bathe hisself once a month, make sandwiches out of vegetated scraps found growing around the yard, and even homeschooled hisself, with a home-set class consisting entirely of old and tattered stuffed animals.
This was, of course, on account of both his birth-given parents having left, one of them melted harshly over his crib, at an unbelievably young age. The other of his parents, the one to survive, fled shortly thereafter. Ran off to join the Peace Corps — she had hoped to join the circus, but the circus hadn’t come to town that year — had left her helpless little boy sunk deep into the belly of his favorite beanbag chair, with a plate of nachos, a juice box, and a large rock that she had gathered from the outside garden, to help weigh her boy down, so’s to prevent him from coming after her.
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