11-6

time and again I ask myself what makes me keep doing the things I do. I don’t really have a good answer. I step into the sunlight each morning knowing full well im risking everything just to feel it’s warmth and I do it again and again. It’s impossible to see them in the bright of the sunrise; only the slightest shimmer gives them away. Tiny wisps of smoke just beyond the wrought iron fence, I can sense them testing, pushing right up to-but not touching-the only protection I have left. I go back inside before the sun rises completely above the horizon. Inside the walls of the fortess that the old school has become. Every day I climb the stairs two at a time and curl up on the twin sized matress in the middle of an otherwise empty room. I listen as the birds go silent on the tree and wish myself into slumber. I don’t know why I push this boundary every day; why I must see a sun I would believe exists even if I didn’t catch it’s glimmering entrance into day. But I know that it is this thing, this drive to own a piece of the daylight they robbed from me, that led to the events that would ultimately take me down to death. And so, without further pomp, my death. A tale in three acts.

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