I am 23 years old, and I can still feel it. My past lingers over me, and hangs in the room like a thick cloud. It engulfs me, and holds me tighter than I would like. I am 23 years old, and I can still feel it. Feel what you ask. I can feel the room. The four blank walls with a thick coat of dark paint. Sadness and fear are the only things that hang on these walls. I feel the coldness and the emptiness that contains the room. They join me as I sit on the single object in the room. I am 23 years old, and I can hear it. Hear what you ask. I can hear the foot prints of the individual household members. I can tell you the exact point that they are located in the room. I can tell you what mood they are in. I can hear their voices, and their whispers about me. I can hear how close they are. Sometimes, I can hear the crisp sound of the lock being moved. My shuffles into the darkness echo in the room. My silent pleads of escaping can be heard running around the room. I am 23 years old, and I can still smell it. I can still smell the sour stench of the room. The smell coats the room. It drapes itself on every crevice. I can smell myself, after being trapped here for days. I can smell the sickness from my stomach, because I haven't ate for days. I can smell the individual tears that have kissed the floor. I can smell the blood from one too many beatings. I am 23 years old, and it will forever haunt me. The memories of being in this room are old, but they will stick with me forever. They never hesitate to welcome me with open arms. They taunt me whenever they please. I am 23 years old, and I cannot escape it.