A Place of its Own

Prologue

The choices we make, the paths we travel, and the people we meet throughout our journeys; all of these things have the potential to help shape who each of us are and what we become in the long run. One small choice can take your life in a whole nother direction. Taking one path in favor of the other can both grant new opportunities, and shatter what could have been. Those whom we meet along the way are much the same. That person at school, with whom you never really associated; should you have gotten to know them better, could have become a best friend, or even a worst enemy. But that opportunity has come to pass. The choice to leave that person as a mere acquaintance has already been made, and no one can change that.

We are left only to question what might have been, had we chosen differently, taken the road less traveled, or gotten to know that one person just a little better. Perhaps it’s regret that chews at us, or maybe it’s comfort in knowing we made the right decisions. Or perhaps you’ve been left to deal with the repercussions of another’s choices. The choices made by those closest to us have the potential to affect our lives just as much as our own; perhaps even more so, if drastic enough.

I often wonder what my life would be like if my mother was still around. Where would I be today, were it not for a violent drunkard’s decision to end her life? His choice sent my life in a whole different direction. What if I’d had a more stable childhood? What if I hadn’t been cycled in and out of numerous foster homes at such a young age? Would I still be the person I am today?

Sometimes, I’d like to go back and change things, if it were ever a possibility. The path I was forced to walk, and the way things have shaped me, have turned me into quite an awkward recluse of an individual.

Aggravation began to set in as my tired eyes skimmed over the words I had scrawled down. I loathed these essays. Reflective papers tended to take a piss-and-moan tone; it was never too long before I wavered from my intended writings, and began to angst about my less-than-desirable past. I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve got a lot of pent-up resentment and bitterness, but to say that reading such musings didn’t bother me would be a lie. I guess, because, when it’s not down on paper, it’s easier for me to deny; but when my hand begins to jot those nasty words down of its own volition, well… that’s when it really gets under my skin.

Was I really so embittered that I couldn’t even concentrate long enough to write a three page essay without all the negativity creeping its way in? Sometimes, I could swear that angsty fifteen year old I was in years-passed was the one doing the writing. What a gloomy little shit I was. But I had come so far since those days… hadn’t I?

As I skimmed, again, over what little I had written, I quickly grew irritated. What a joke it was shaping into! A joke of an essay for a joke of a class, I muttered, scoffing quietly. But a class I’ll bomb again if I don’t hand in something by the end of the quarter. With a tired sigh, I tore the page from my notebook and crumbled it up, tossing it into a wastebasket that was full of other incomplete musings and ideas. I closed the book, placing my pencil at rest atop the leathery cover, and I leaned back in the rickety old desk chair.

Tipping my glasses back, I rubbed at my sleepy eyes. Clearly, I wasn’t going to make much more progress that night. And when I realized just how late it was getting, I opted to brush my teeth and retire for the evening.

Lazy feet dragged my lanky frame to the bathroom, where I switched on the light. An overflowing hamper greeted me, and I couldn’t help but to snarl at it. Such a demanding thing, dirty laundry. I squeezed a strip of white goo across the bristles of my toothbrush and got down to business. When my gaze shifted upwards, I found a familiar face looking back at me; a pale, scruffy-faced fellow, with dull brown hair, and a pair of piercing green eyes that peered back at me from behind a pair of black frames. He looked a little haggard for his age; barely twenty-one, and he was typically mistaken for half a decade older. It suited him, in a way. As though the hardships of his life had worn even on his features. but then again, if he spent more time grooming than just a daily shower and a quick comb through his unruly mop of hair, he’d likely shed a few years. In the end, though, this guy in the mirror had no one to please but himself, and to him, it was just fine.

Sometimes, I still expected to see one of my younger counterparts; be it the lost, frightened child, or the grouchy teenager with the over sized headphones. Sometimes, I forgot that I had grown into this haggard shell of mine. And with every year that passed, I began to look more and more like-

I spat the foam from my mouth with the same haste I hoped I could forget that thought had ever even occurred to me. I raised the cup of water to my mouth and took a swig, rinsing away the remnants of minty suds. Dumping the rest down the drain, I put everything back in its assigned home, and made my way out, turning off the light.

Trekking back to my bedroom, my body flopped down onto the inviting mattress. I put my glasses onto the nightstand and buried my face into the cool, plush pillow. It proved more welcome a sensation than I thought it would, and before long, I felt myself drifting off. Not even my troublesome thoughts could put up a fight against the sleep that tugged so persistently at my eyelids.