I can't believe that the darkest enemies I have in the day could be my own kin.

I sit in closed prison, at a foggy desk, in a row with other foggy desks. The room casts a dull light that fills your vision with patterns you can't understand. The longer you strain your eyes to analyze the vague writing, the more your mind exhausts; the more the fumes consume. And as I sit in the clouded containment, growing sleepy and sad, I wish to be home.

But as I enter the doors of my warmth and living, I receive purrs and taunting. Dark figures scream in my direction. They spin around my mind until I dizzy. They blame me for things I haven't heard of. Giving reason to my own misshapen mishaps. I cower, wondering what I could have done to provoke this screaming. I cover my ears and try to escape by running up the wall to the dark ceiling. But as they catch me, my leg is pulled into a warping sensation of black. They throw me into a chair of thorns, forcing me to sit and stay in their torture room; staring and taunting me. Grinning wickedly, they coax me to talk.

"Talk."

I am terrified. I want to escape I am trapped. I never wanted to feel this way in a place I was born in.

The next day I carry a soft orb of light with me to feel comfort.

And when they smack it out of my grasp.

That's when I lose it.