I sit in my living room, purple bags under my eyes, eyes that haven't been closed in three days. Each tick of the clock grows louder as I continue to sit.
Tik, Tok.
Tik, Tok.
The men draped in long white coats had lied.
They had promised me.
They had told me home would be a source of tranquility.
I plod to my kitchen, attempting to shake the sense of anger and betrayal. Stumbling upon old tea bags, the idea of sipping on the herbal drink appeals to me. Grudgingly, I turn on the stove. Faint memories of my punishment for the last time I mistakenly used a stove begin to resurface, sending a shudder up my spine. I sit back down on my couch cushions, hoping to find solace in a place I had searched dozens of times. I close my eyes, struggling to relax and imagine radiant sunshine and beautiful flowers amidst the darkness behind my eyelids. I slowly inch closer to this picture of peace.
Closer.
Closer.
The tea kettle SCREECHES and my eyes are glued shut, leaving me to remember dreadful memories. I cover my ears only attempting to block out the kettle's cry similar to my own internal feelings. The horror, the ghastly horror that I experienced those long years is all condensed into a five second movie playing over and over again in my head.
The screeching ceases.
The memories halt.
I open my eyes to see my hands vigorously shaking.
Curse those men and their coats.
Curse this home - this not so sweet home.