Damp Pillow

I approached that door with an ominous feeling not unfamiliar. I didn't even like that door, I'd never have chosen that glass. Blue for money they said, what money? What a hark! The unfinished attempt of a porch, left for more than ten years yet another example of the disinterested attitude that surrounds this place. Sometimes it's like there's a crushing weight pushing down on me every time the key turns in the lock. These four walls are the most oppressive thing in my life.

I waited until I scrambled into bed and pulled the covers up like a child before an overdue assault of suppressed emotion came gurgling up and I had a little cry. Not for long, just a few minutes of silent sobbing and deep ragged breaths while makeup remains trailed from my eyes. For the first time in a while I wasn't waiting for that text, my mind preoccupied. These four walls and the image of my twelve year old self. I can see her sitting there crying for much longer than I allow myself to now. Writing similar scribbles in a weathered notebook. Nothing really changes until we change it-Is that a quote? It feels like it should be. The tears brought on a headache, it's been quite a while since I've been overwhelmingly upset over these walls. Even though I scrubbed my face with a towel and tucked deeper into bed I still felt a few more quiet tears slide into my pillow and after five minutes had to turn it over to avoid the dampness.
I hate it here. I'd sell half my soul to be somewhere else and never have to come back.