It was always a dividing line- that doorway. Darkness from light, fun from work, happiness from anger, but most of all freedom from prison. As a teenager I couldn't stand being confined to that house. I imagaine that if I had considered it my home it would have been easier. Those days I did everything I could to escape that place. Each time I stepped out the doorway I could feel the surge of freedom course throught me. Coming back each day felt like being sentenced to the death penalty after being found innocent- cruel and unusual.
I never did refer to that house as my home. To me it was simply a house on a street, and nothing more. I wish I could say that over time I grew to like it, I wish that I could say that I slept peacfuly at night, but alas I never did grow attatched to the house and ech night I would wake wishing that I could sleep.
With anguish I remember the times that I was kept within its walls. Punishment they called it; it did punish me. During that time I felt like an animal grown to large for it cage and still locked within it. Suffering is something I did well and without complaint. Sometimes, when I look back on it, I see the reason it didn't hurt me s much as it could have-
Already I had learned that going back to my house was painful and I had become accustomed to it. Like the aching of an of an old wound or the sight of something long lost, it brought a dull throbbing pain. When it's all you've ever felt, pain doesn't hurt.
I'm still here in this house, and that doorway still seperates me from my freedom. One day, I know, I will walk out the door and never return.