Prison

Most teenagers think of the first day of school as a test. As a defining moment about who they're going to be for the rest of the year. Some dress up, others dress down and some. . . well we're not quite sure what they're doing. As is always the case for a stereotypical teenager living in a stereotypical suburban hell, I feel I am the exception.

I can't remember last years' start to school. I can't remember what I wore on the first day or which boy I was trying to impress. I actually take that back, I wasn't trying to impress anyone. I did everything I could to blend in with the crowd, to make it seem as if I was one of them. Going back to school left me feeling numb, for I hadn't even had 2 weeks to comprehend the nightmare I was still living in.

No, I'm not excited for the beginning of the year, because it brings back memories I've spent this past year trying to forget. Yet now, they're all resurfacing as the police are getting in my business--the business I invited them into. And yes, I'm relatively happy that I've finally grown a pair and want you to rot in a similar prison I recently emerged from. Yours won't be in your head, and yours won't leave you wondering what's real and what isn't. But it will be a prison, and that will hopefully be the only thing we have left in common.

This is the start to a new year, and I'm excited. But I'd be lying if I said that I'm not in a place where I still could break down at any mention of your name. You haunt me, still, a year later. Going back to school isn't a mark of progress or a healthy way for me to get my mind off you. I'm scared, and what worries me most is that in my attempt to get you behind bars, you'll force me back behind my own.