* This is a channeled reading I received from a good friend, channeling personal wisdom for myself from a Unicorn named Rashic. *

I am the night, I am the stars that twinkle and glitter in the night between the universes, between the cosmos. I am all that is between the stars, of the universes, between the spirits, between the experiences, that we all share, amongst ourselves. I drift between the spheres of influence, between that which is, and that which is not.

I wander both aimlessly and purposefully, with reason and without, admiring all that has been created before me. I am both without, and with plenty. Abundance, and scarcity. A heart of fullness, and a heart that has withered. I am both of these things and all of these things.

And my place is between the cosmos, between the spheres of life, and influence, and growth, and pain, and lessons. I watch. I watch from my place of continuity. Of continuous change, and continuous exchange. And I learn through others, and sometimes with others. And each time a new universe is created and begins to grow, I relish in the experience. I watch from afar but also close up. Excited for the possibilities of this new place.

Within Me, these same possibilities exist. Infinite possibilities like the infinite universes that we are. New universes springing forth from eternal life, and eternal choice, these are within me. And each time one of these new universes springs forth, I am given the opportunity to experience something I have never experienced before, to grow and learn in ways I never have before. But in order for this to happen, I must embrace these new opportunities when they are birthed, when they form. Recognise it, embrace it, be it. Learn from it.

If I miss one, there will always be others, so I do not need to fret, that I have missed my chance. No such thing, there will always be another chance. It is a question of when do I want to grow, where do I want to grow, and how fast do I want to grow. There will always be new opportunities within me. It is up to me which ones to seize upon and take the ride given to me. But if an opportunity appears and I do not take it, I do not seize it, that’s alright. There will be others, there will always be others. There is no failure, there are no mistakes. There are only opportunities for growth. I will always have new opportunities presented. Opportunities I have created, and opportunities others are presenting me. But it is important for me to understand that if I allow an opportunity to pass by, there will forever and always be more.

There are no wrong choices.

I can create new opportunities. I do not have to wait for them to appear. I can create them within myself. If the opportunities that appear before me do not seem to fit who I am, and where I’m going, I can shape and mould and give birth to one myself. One that is tailored to what I need. If a tool in the shop is not available, to create what I’m trying to build, I can create the tool. I have that within me. I must learn to use that gift, and then teach others how to use that gift. For I am whole, and one. And I am the place between the universes, between the opportunities, between the growth, I am that place between fertile, with possibilities, and I tend this field of possibilities. Lovingly, I water them, I nurture them, I grow them. Opportunities for myself and opportunities for others. Not only do I grow opportunities for me, but I also grow new opportunities for others. I just need to remember how, trust myself, and use my gift that I brought myself to the world of humans to help them on their way. For this…..is a part of my purpose, on planet earth. To help others find opportunities, to help others learn how to create opportunities. This will be my gift to humanity before I leave. Before I return to the place between.

I’m sorry that her heroin ravaged your fetal body. Instead of nutrition and wholesome goodness, you fought for life the minute you had a beating heart.

I’m sorry you weren’t her priority when you should have been her joy. Instead, she chased the dragon whilst the devil was at play because for her the drugs were her delight.

I’m sorry he violated your innocence. When cuddles and toys were replaced with punches and touchings that no toddler should endure. His workings with darkness made you seek out the light, but your angels were with you all the way, holding your little hands.

I’m sorry the thunder scared you, and the foster homes made you numb. They had to keep you physically safe, as you were only three. You built a wall around your heart made from iron and steel. Your guides held the key for you, knowing one day you’ll be open, but for now, you were guarded, safe in your fortress.

I’m sorry they were dazzled, by your limp blonde hair, fragile blue eyes, and sombre expression. They were naive to your traumas yet captivated by your cuteness. A catalogue picture of a child to be adopted. No-one understood you. Physical needs were met, but the emotional traumas were disregarded, left to quietly fester and rot your mind.

I’m sorry the school kids called you weird, and you spent break times alone. Many times you daydreamed, out the classroom window, knowing there was more. In your solitude, even at 6 years old, the angels had their hands on you, as you explored your thoughts. Only to be snapped back to ‘reality’ by the teacher’s whip of a tongue.

I’m sorry you were again violated. He didn’t need to be teaching and showing you things you needn’t know. He had no right to claim your body as his toy. You grew to differentiate between light and dark, right and wrong. Your voice began to roar, and you began to fight.

I’m sorry that the longing for home and grieving your roots was too heavy a burden to bear. I’m sorry that people turned a blind eye to you, closed their eyes, and shut your mouth. Wanting to die at 9, to make the sadness stop, couldn’t be closer to hell. But the determination was strong in you, you stayed the course, fighting tooth and nail.

I’m sorry it all got too much when the cage door was flung open, and your instinct ran savage, destroying everything in its path. Only clearing out the old, to make room for the new.

The lack of understanding, comfort and love, replaced with being called crazy, forced to take pills, and locked away.

I’m sorry they put you back in the cage. At 13 in jail, choking yourself, slamming your head against concrete, begging the angels to let you die. I am so sorry. That it got to that. I am so so sorry for the hospitals and the drugs and the restraints and the injuries and the despair, anger, turmoil, sadness, angst, and heartbreak.

I am sorry for your upbringing of fights, and abuse, and homelessness, and sexual abuse and grief for a family you never had. I’m sorry that you had no-one. That you only had yourself. I’m sorry that no-one could help, that only you could help yourself. I’m sorry that no-one could save you. Only you could save yourself.

To fully experience the dark, to be in the depths of despair, and the chains of hell, only when you can’t go any further, must you go the other way. To fully know the light, we must know the darkness. With everything comes a shadow.

I was never alone, for my soul knows best. I had myself. My heart, my fight and my will….my life to fight for. I found myself and found my soul. I embrace my inner child with the love no-one else ever gave her. Because I am her, and she is me. I am her saviour. I am her defender and I am her salvation.

I embrace my inner child, as my own daughter. I heal and comfort her wounds. I restore her back to full health. I unlock her from the shackles and chains of her mind.

Because I have the key.

I see you, I am here. I am ready to embrace you with open arms child. I’ll hear you roar, and see you weep, but know my child, it’s my love that you seek.

They never allowed me to own a pet growing up. Instead, I would play with the frogs in the garden when I was younger. I’d catch them in my hands, then squeal when they leapt away. I’d even collect the ants coming out of the cracks in the pathway, to then reunite them with their friends. Even bringing ladybirds home from the school field, gave me much delight as I made them little houses out of Lego to live in.

My dad gave in with the no pets rule after moving to America when I was 11 years old. Possibly to help me settle with the move. One summer’s day, we were at Mr and Mrs B’s house from our new church. Their daughter who was my age took me to see her rabbits. She told me how she wasn’t keeping the white rabbit.

“My parents don’t allow me to have pets,” I said.

She seemed surprised. I stroked the bunny, smiling at him. We played with the bunnies for a few minutes in silence.

“You can have him….. and the hutch for free,” she said.

I looked at her in disbelief.

“Really!” I shrieked, making her jump.

“Yes,” she replied as if it was no big deal.

I ran as fast as I could to the house to plead with my Dad. Convinced he would say no. But to my delight and after a talk with Mr B about the responsibilities of looking after a rabbit, my Dad agreed. Mr B brought him around the next day, in his hutch on the back of his pickup truck. From then on I named him Beanco. This albino rabbit, with his soft snowy fur and bright pink eyes became my little mate. There was a great big tree on our land, with a bed of moss around the bottom. I’d climb high up and layout on a thick branch. Beanco would run around the bottom of the trunk, kicking out his back legs to the side in delight.

The neighbour’s dog Joey became my best friend. He had freedom of the 140 acres of land, and you’d often see him about, or relaxing in the sunshine. Joey soon became my soulmate and got me through many tough times. He would run down the driveway every day behind my Mum’s car, on the way home from school. I would sit on the back steps feeding him oat biscuits and hugging him tight. He was an Australian Shepherd breed, with one blue eye and one brown eye. A beautiful ball of shaggy, soft fur, who would shake your hand, twirl around and play dead if you pretended to shoot him. A friendly, calm and loyal dog who would sit with me for many hours at a time. He and I went on many adventures together on the land. Never far from me, always happy to see me. We soon became kindred spirits.

The house and the grounds we moved to in New Hampshire were incredible. We lived 4 miles down a long and windy country road. In rural New Hampshire, the houses were large and beautifully built. In heaps of lush land and scenery, we’d encounter many types of wildlife along the road. Houses we’d never seen would peek out in the dead of winter through the bare trees. The road would set alight with vivid colours from the leaves in the fall. Bright sunshine would bounce off the glistening waters, and the odd deer would leap across the road. This made Mum fear for her life. Grand buffalo were seen grazing in the fields behind their electric fence. A world away from the tiny terraced houses on a rainy, congested road back in England. The smell of a roadkill skunk would hit your nose 2 miles before passing its splattered body on the side of the road.

A handful of the nearby university students would attempt a driving challenge on this road, including my brother. The car was automated to 40mph, with only a 30mph limit. The goal was to drive down the windy and hilly road, tackling many sharp and blind corners. Chipmunks and squirrels were frequent hazards as well as deer. Also risks of sliding off the edge of the road into trees or a body of water. The surrounding marshland had slippery embankments right next to the road. This delighted the invincible sophomores. One day after school, my adoptive brother thought it would be hilarious to torment me. So he attempted this challenge with me in the car.

After what seemed like a lifetime of him speeding down the 4 miles of tarmac, often on the opposite side of the road, he still managed to maintain control the majority of the time. Until he yanked the steering wheel, hurling the car to turn left to our driveway. He managed to straighten up last second. Back on the drive, he slammed his foot hard on the accelerator. My head threw back, dust flew up around the windows, and we were off. Literally, we had gained air. Big air. Over the first steep hill on the drive, we flew. My butt left the seat, and I screamed. My knuckles turned white from digging my fingers into whatever I could hold on to. Everything happened in slow motion. Even his hands gripped the steering wheel as his eyes opened wide. The car crashed down, shaking violently. Our necks hurled forward. Stones, pebbles and dust flew up and the front bumper made an awfully loud scraping sound across gravel. He slammed on the brakes. We came to a screeching halt a few inches from a large tree trunk staring right at us. The awful smell of burning rubber crept up our noses. We looked at each other, terrified, then burst out laughing as we realised how close we were to a severe car wreck. Thankfully we were okay, including the car. My brother shrieked a triumph of success, thinking he was awesome when really a complete shit show had occurred.

At the entrance to our driveway a beautiful, black iron sign hung gently among the trees, with the words, ‘Stonehouse Farm’. Silhouettes of a farmer and his animals were engraved into it. The driveway stretched a mile from the road to the property. Surrounded with deep woodland, the entire land spanned over 140 acres. After the steep dip down, the path wound through dense forest. The long, winding, gravel drive was only wide enough for one car. The gravel path would then open alongside a vast shimmering pond. The odd heron would be posing out on the water, waiting patiently for his fish supper. A beaver dam hid into the base of some trees on the water’s edge and snapping turtles would catch the sun on a nearby log.

One spring day, my dad and I took a walk down our drive. As we walked by the pond, we heard a big splash. We looked across the pond, bewildered. Then suddenly down came another splash. It echoed and bounced off the surrounding trees.

“Wow! Look!” he said.

My Dad pointed across the pond. I couldn’t see anything.

“Wait, watch it again,” he stated.

I waited, my eyes looking aimlessly as I had no idea what to look for. A few moments later a strange brown object popped up and slapped on the water. It looked like a leather shoe. Then followed a cute, little, furry face. A beaver! Not only that, a beaver family! I squealed with amazement. He asked me to hush.

’’I think they do that to warn their friends that we’re here, we have to stay quiet,” he whispered, his eyes wide.

We stood and watched as a young beaver family glided gracefully across the pond. They made their way over to the dam they had disguised into the embankment. They scurried into their home. I squealed with excitement, of course, we’d never seen anything like this is England.

As you’d come to the end of the dirt track, you’d pass a small shed. More of a shack, as it was only seen if you were on foot, as it was so camouflaged. It was an abandoned hunter’s shed. I never liked that thing. The door had a peephole. I never looked in. My imagination tormented me with images of a face looking back or a hand reaching out to grab me. I’d often get shudders walking past it. Across from the small shack was a large, dilapidated workshop. The building at one point used as a cannery. I couldn’t resist but to explore it. Inside sat a large sailboat that had been abandoned and partly finished. The paint had been peeling and tools were left lying around. The roof caved in with a fallen tree balancing precariously over the roof. The surroundings were overgrown as nature had begun to reclaim its space back. Parked outside was a broken down white van, with strange drawings of fruit and veg painted on it. It had been rusting away for years, and quite obviously out of use. However, that didn’t stop my brothers and their friends trying to hotwire it, with no luck. I always found it so unnerving how the whole place had been abandoned.

The woods would then clear, and on the right would be large open hay fields. A small stonewall ran alongside it. The Great Bay lay in the distance. Freedom awaited. It was a beautiful scenic route down to the water. I’d hop over the stone wall and begin crossing the fields. I’d often take my bike as it was almost a mile from the house to the shore. I’d ride the tiny worn path all the way. Yet for some reason, I’d always rush through the orchard. One minute I’d be in a wide open space, then the next minute I had dipped into a dark, sheltered area. The orchard was dense with trees and shrubs. Flowers were always blooming, and it smelt fresh and lovely. Beautiful, yet unsettling. I never stopped in that small orchard. I always felt like something was watching me. It created a similar sense of panic as with the hunter’s shack. Back in open fields, the path bent round, hugging a border of trees. A picnic bench sat out in a large patch of short grass and close-by was the private, pebble beach. Almost a mile from home, the house was nowhere in sight. I’d rest my bike against the bench, and stoop down the embankment behind the beach hut that had also been abandoned. I supported myself on a small sycamore tree, I’d hop down onto the pebble beach. Under the tree, there was a large boulder that I’d sit on. I’d skim the pebbles into the water. The Great Bay eventually led out to the sea. Quiet. Calm waters rippled, glistening in the sun. No people around. The odd boat would bob past in the distance. Myself and often Joey. He’d lay there panting, his face beaming, tongue hanging out one side, his eyes half closed as the sun shone down on him. He’d lay down, thankful for his rest after running alongside my bike. The soft breeze sweeping through his fur, soothing him. So fresh and peaceful. Here I could sit quietly. My eyes closed. No fear. No sadness. Just a contented emptiness.

Back at the house, wild deer would often graze on the small field outside the kitchen window. If you carefully listened you would hear them dart through the woods. In the fall, wild turkeys would wander and gobble around our property. The house was exceptionally old, with the original house built in the early 1800s. My bedroom resided in an original part of the house before the extension in the 1920s. This colonial style Stonehouse held a lot of history. A successful banker from Boston owned the house from the early 1900s. It was originally used as a working farm and business, but the owners converted its use to a summer estate. Built on the slope of a small hill, the front resembled a cottage, and at the back a grand 3 story mansion. The property was owned by a prominent New Hampshire family. They also used it as a place of relaxation and recreation for Boston socialites.

We moved there in 2002. The interior held the same furnishings 100 years prior. The place seemed almost untouched. Silver goblets sat with matching dinnerware, proudly on display in the dining room. The interior walls clad in wood, grand model ships displayed in cabinets around the home. My brother and I found some antique suitcases. They were crammed with black and white photos of the previous owner’s parties many years prior. They were holding the same goblets in the dining room, with the same curtains and sofas in the great hall. The biggest room in the house, the great hall, had a high ceiling with exposed beams looming overhead. A large fireplace with an old iron bread oven built into it. The original dumbwaiter down near the dining room also still working. Even the kitchen table made of original, solid wood, was full of character and history. A house buzzing with days of old. The whole house oozed with energy that I soaked up like a sponge. Was I crazy, or just going wild with energy? When my parents left me on my own, I always had an immense sense of dread. My chest would squeeze tightly, and my head would feel heavy. I’d be petrified of something. Yet nothing. I’d sit in bed in my room, under the sloped roof, duvet up to my nose, frozen with fear until someone came home. It was much worse at night. This house and my life all sounds incredible. But my childhood pain had been carried here with me. On the outside we lived in a luxurious and magnificent home, surrounded by wealth and beauty. Yet the conflict, pain, and emotional torture was heavy, constant, and suffocating. Life started getting really tough. I had recently turned twelve years old. A lingering childhood of turmoil and pain began to spill out, gripping anyone and anything in its path. A lifetime spent bottling up immense hurt. There were too many arguments and too much conflict. The control, and lack of love, as well as the humiliation, and restrictions were all too much for me. I was a boiling pot trying to keep the lid on.

On this particular day, the usual arguments and fights were in full swing. But I had recently become smothered with bitterness. All I thought about was my real mother, out there somewhere. The only photo I’d seen of her, I wasn’t allowed to keep. This broke my heart in two.

Mum went for a bath in the ensuite off her bedroom. I snuck in and quietly opened her underwear drawer. I knew she hid important documents, like passports and birth certificates in there. The kind of things that us kids shouldn’t have. I knew the picture of my biological mother would be in there. The bathroom door stood ajar, but she seemed busy enough. I rifled through her underwear, moving socks and bras out of the way. Yet I couldn’t find it. I remember they showed it to me when I was about 8 years old, but said I couldn’t have it until I was 18 years old. Eldon was my mother’s name. Her face was etched in my memory. Dark hair tied back with a thick fringe. She was wearing a pink top, with a solemn face in a passport style photo. I wanted to hold it and look at her again.

The bathroom door flung open. My adoptive Mum immediately began to shriek at me, her face like a hot iron, her bony hands charging towards me. She began to hurl the usual insults at me about how sneaky and selfish I was. I jumped up as she lunged at me, grabbing me by my clothes. She flung me onto the bed. Wrestling with me to pull my pants down. The usual spanking that I’d experienced daily since being adopted at three years old was to unfold. However I was now 12, and I was getting fed up with it. Humiliation crept up my face. Embarrassment engulfed me. The spankings were always merciless. A wooden spoon was the weapon of choice, but we weren’t in the kitchen. I preferred the spoon over my Mum’s bony hands. My adoptive parents need to have my naked bottom on show became a violation for me. I never understood it, and it made the situation more emotionally painful. I cringed as the skin of my cheeks crept above my pants as she yanked them down. The air came whizzing past as she whacked her hand across my butt, stinging my ass. I yelped. With each spank, images flashed in my mind of a wicked woman, beating me, all because I wanted a picture of my real mother. Everything happened in slow motion. I watched it happen from the third person. I watched myself shrieking back, as she walloped my ass, anger in her eyes, her lips pursed.

‘No. No more. I don’t deserve this.’ I thought to myself.

I arched my back, my body filled with rage. I looked at Mum in the eyes. They were full of hatred for me. Not an ounce of love. There never had been. My face felt hot and wet with tears. I glared back at her. I’d had enough. My hand flew up, the rage engulfed my arm and ‘WHACK!’ I backhanded her in the face. I used all the force my body could give, and all the years of pain I’d held onto. All the tears I’d cried, all the emotions, daily beatings and insults I’d endured. She stumbled back, shock crept over her face. But I didn’t stop. I acted like a rabid dog on its prey. I lost all control. I took a handful of her hair and shook her like a rag-doll. I pushed her against the wall, forcing her head into it. I screamed at her how much I hated her. Her eyes filled with fear. My hands shook with anger, her grey hair wound around my hand, as she looked at me in fright. I glared at her. She knew I was done with all the shit. I screamed one last cry of years of despair in her face. Then left her in a deformed, confused, and terrified heap on the floor. Then I ran.

Crying and shaking. Angry. Sad, yet also liberated. My legs were like jelly as I ran and ran, towards the hay fields, to the Great Bay. I was out of breath and still crying. I furiously kicked the stones into the shore, then slumped onto the boulder, weeping, my head in my hands. Then the overwhelming sense of dread crept over me as to what had happened. It dawned on me that I’d soon be going back to the detention centre.

It was three months later after the worst days of my life. I had my 13th birthday in the youth detention centre, and now I was summoned back to court. My solicitor was a failure from the start. He had no idea what he was doing. However, my probation officer, Ms S, knew exactly what she was doing. Average height, chubby woman, late 30s, medium length brown hair with a fringe and glasses. She would often ask how I was doing, seemingly with sincerity. But I grew to dislike her. As she always became a different woman in the courtroom.

I’d already been in the detention centre which was called YDSU twice by the time she was assigned to me. The jail was located an hour away from our home in the capital, Concord in New Hampshire. It was on the top floor of an old hospital. Decades prior it used to be called ‘New Hampshire State Asylum for the Insane.’ The rest of the building lay bare. But the top floor was used to house the state’s delinquents. From being in my cell 21 hours of the day, going to court was the biggest highlight of my life at that point. When I left it felt like freedom. I was still wearing the bright red strong clothes from the jail. I got in a police car with the handcuffs and shackles on. It was an hour’s ride back to Durham County Court. At this point in my life, anything was better than being in my cell wanting to die.

“Hey! How ya doing? Bet it’s good to be out there, hey? At least for the time being?” Ms S would proclaim.

Her hair was perfectly in place. She had her files in hand, high heels on, wearing an immaculate dress suit. She sipped on her iced coffee, smiling at me. I looked at her, unimpressed. I knew what she was like. As the court hearings went ahead, she always turned into a very different person. My attorney stutters and stumbles as he attempts to put forward his recommendations. It was embarrassing to watch. Even the other adults in the courtroom looked at him bewildered. He stood there pale like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. Not knowing what to do, he hands the judge my letter instead. My attorney had quite clearly given up at the first hurdle. The judge quietly read my letter, then looked down at me over his glasses. An unimpressed look on his face. In his eyes, he had been handed a pathetic letter. He didn’t understand that it was in fact written with my whole heart, full of desperation.

The judge begins to read through the files of my behaviour at the detention centre. Numerous altercations with staff resulting in restraints. Self-harm and suicide attempts. Many occasions put into isolation. The judge frowns upon what he reads. Ms S takes the stand and stated how I was a child that could not behave, and how much of a danger to myself and others I was.

“It goes to show that along with these violent outbursts, and many attempts of self-harm, she is unable to comprehend the damage that she has done. I am unable to see her make any progress in another type of setting. As soon as she is confronted with authority, she becomes unpredictable, aggressive, and is a danger to everyone around her. I recommend that she remains at YDSU for a minimum of three months. Unless another secure establishment becomes available and is willing to take her. Thank you, your honour.”

Ms S gave her argument, clearly and effortlessly.

The judge nodded as she sat back down. Shock hit me like a brick to the face.

‘Three months?’ I thought.

I sat there and shuddered at her convincing words. I couldn’t believe how calmly she presented her recommendation. I was only 13 years old.

Panic began to suffocate my body. I desperately looked at my attorney, but he was no use. He just sat there blank-faced. I looked at the judge, wishing he knew what really had been happening to me. But he was a stern, old man. It was clear that he was in agreement with Ms S. I knew he had no idea what it was like to be in an 8 by 8ft cell, for 21 hours of the day, with only a bible and a picture of my rabbit glued to the wall with toothpaste. Doctors had medicated me for many disorders. This caused me to endure mood swings, suicidal thoughts, and insomnia. Every minute I resided in the detention centre I wanted to die. Yet I was unable to kill myself because of the staff constantly watching me. After attempting suicide by slamming my face into the wall, I well and truly hit rock bottom. I had my underwear taken away, pillowcases, and forced to wear paper clothes. I was monitored when using the toilet and also monitored for a shower, unable to resist or refuse. Being handcuffed to the wall by one hand, standing there naked under a measly stream of lukewarm water, was traumatising enough. Especially with a member of staff stood in front of me. I found myself on suicide watch and forced into my cell for 24 hours of the day. I didn’t have a period for months because of the stress I endured. Having strip searches and being told to bend over at 12 and 13 years old for fully grown adults to check for contraband, was enough to make my self-worth melt away right there. I would often wail for hours in my cell, petrified. This resulted in being restrained as the staff saw me losing control. I was restrained because I was trying to kill myself. Does the judge realise that I had both my shoulders dislocated, suffered numerous bloody noses and a fat lip because the staff would throw me down on the concrete floor like a rag-doll as soon as I put up a fight? Did he know what it was like to sit on a plastic mattress in an empty room, with bars on the windows 24/7? Did he understand what it was like to experience insanity? Did he think sending me back would fix me? I had been condemned to a death sentence.

The judge gave his verdict. Back to YDSU. I lost my mind. There and then in the courtroom. I jumped up with the brown belt around my tiny waist. The handcuffs chained through the belt, cutting into my wrists in front with my fists clenched, my shackles digging into my ankles. The police always tightened them as I’d previously escaped from them. I only weighed about 100 pounds back then. I screamed a blood-curdling cry of despair. I collapsed onto the floor in utter desperation. The police dragged me up, knowing they had to remove me quickly. I fought them hard. I flailed my body, fighting desperately, digging my heels into the ground. My Mum and Dad were sat on the benches. I screamed as I was dragged past them.

“Please! Please, I’m sorry! I don’t mean to be like this! Please, I can’t go back there!” I pleaded.

I felt desperate. I was stuck in a nightmare. They looked away, my Dad with tears in his eyes. I couldn’t do this anymore. My body began to give up as I quickly entered a state of shock. The lump in my throat suffocated me, my knees began to buckle. I couldn’t believe that it was happening all over again. I screamed to my Mum. I hated her and I was terrified of the detention centre. It had a petrifying aura. As my whole mind crumbled, the tears flooded. I fought with all my might in the corridor, begging the judge to not send me back there. But it all fell on deaf ears. I was being punished for suffering from insanity. I’d already served time for my crimes. But now I was being sent back to hell, for simply being crazy and lost. They wanted to lock me away from society. The police dragged me outside. I remember it was a sunny day. The cop car was still waiting. The one I arrived in from YDSU. Yet I was going straight back. I hyperventilated from all the crying. My vision blurred from the tears. The cars passed by, with free people, casually going about their day. The beautiful green trees and the fresh air filled my body, with jealousy. I’d not been outdoors in a long time. I glanced down the road, knowing that less than half-a-mile round the corner was the road back to Stonehouse Farm. The fields, The Great Bay, Joey. I wept. Ms S suggested to the cop I have my handcuffs behind my back because of the state I was in. I couldn’t even fight. I was a broken soul. Stooping down into the cop car, I spun my feet in, the shackle chain clinking on the metal of the car. The cage made a crash as he slammed the door. The bars on the windows filled the car with a familiar darkness. My wrists seared with pain from the handcuffs cutting into my skin. But I didn’t care. There was no point. My life was in a million pieces. I had run out of strength. I had given up on my fight. It was then that I realised my existence was meaningless. It was only a few days ago I’d thrown myself infront of god at my knees in my cell begging him to save me. This wasnt saving me?!?! Was he crazy?! There was no God. what was the point?!?! * insert YDSU….I succumbed to the feelings, and as we pulled away from the courthouse, I chose to die.