Jail

I've never noticed the constant rearranging of the furniture in my house. Sometimes when I run into the coffee table instead of the couch I forget to ask why. It's ten past six. My mom move the furniture around like puzzle pieces, lifting up pillows as if they were gateways. She uses the creaks on the wooden floor to measure wheres she's checked already. It's seven now. Eight. Nine. My mother moves slower at time moves up. She reaches for a knife to cut something and see what's inside. My father awakens at ten. We push the furniture south to wherever it was moved and we sit in the kitchen as if we were normal. His raspy voice is enough to make us leave. My mom passes him a plate through the table. It slides and hits the floor. He leaves it be and he goes to work. When he leaves, we rest; dreaming about all the knooks and crannies we haven't checked in the house and how there has to be one place to leave. It's ten past six. My meal sets in. I begin to feel drowsy. I fall asleep.

In my dream, it feels to real. I wake up in a room. Bars surrounded me. There's a picture starting to fall off in the corner showing a path I started to make with my fists. The bars where Windows should be show blood from too many attempts of me trying to crush my brain through the walls and maybe giving my ideas to someone who can actually do something with it. Sometimes I run into the wall instead of my bed. A man walks by. Black suit: hat, microphone on his shoulder and gun in his pocket. He moves my gate open, then closes it, almost only to make sure there wasn't an escape. I'm so tired. It's seven now. Eight. Nine. The guy moves slower as he gets more tired. I try to reach for his keys through the bars but he awakes. He comes with a plate. He slides the plate through the opening of my door and it reaches the floor. I leave it be. I face the wall. Thinking. Tired. Still thinking. I turn to see who's watching on the other side. I face the wall. I reach for a knife to cut my wrists and see if there really are bees rattling inside. I throw the knife on the ground trying to open up this cage because it's so fucking small and I'm claustrophobic.

My alarm goes off.

Ten past six.

It's been 16 years.

And we're still looking for an escape.