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I remember the scent that slunk under my bed from a day to day basis. How my newly cleaned sheets mixed with the freshly mopped floor that my mother had analy done everyday. The texture of the floorboards as I clung into them invisioning my fingernails working grooves in them as I would be pulled away by my legs or some other part of my body. It was foolish to seek sanctity in the same place everday, but I was eight and instinctively went to the only place where monsters trodded and demons crept up in after the dawns of night. If it was as bad as place to harbor such creatures, then surely no one would dare venture there.

The dust tickled my nose as I trembled hearing the car door slam from outside. My window raddled from the tremble for it was located near the garage where my father had parked the car. I could hear the forced creak the delapitated steel conjured to my imagination and the deliberation I would soon recieve. I clutched to the bed post trying to invision my closest friend to comfort my weakend state but without success. My childhood was an oubliette and no rats nor glimpses of candle light grazed my prison. The only feeling I would receive would be from the sting of leather across my back and the isolation of being lead back to my place of forgetting.

Without realizing, I eventually became numb to the punishment. My isolation only made me invision a lesser state of being for myself. As long as I wasn't "there", I thought, I would be alright. In my household I was rarely adressed at all so it gave me a plethra of instances to entertain my imagination with alternatives during my incarceration. My education became the key to my survival. Before long I was reaching my adolescence. If my childhood be an oubliette, then adolescence was it's bridge. My "dedication" to my studies landed me in the advanced classes. The unfortunate side was that those who would console me, comfort me, and consort with me, would shun me, ridicule me and persecute.

I was not verbal in my English class when it was more than required of me. Wether it be a spark or misguided chance, my English teacher pursued my intellect. She encouraged my opinion and tried desperately through the days to gain the desired effect. Perhaps I was just unwilling at first, but I had no desire. I believe it was more of a fear now that I reflect. The chance that anything would be said to my parents about me only drew the images of more punishment into my mind. She wished me to speak my mind and breathe passion and soul into my writing. I could not reach for something I did not have. What breath does a lifeless soul have to spare? A few wrasps? Not enough to breathe life; not even into his self.

My older sister, at this time, was studying the musical arts. The clarinet to be more precise. Those wonderful tones echoed through the house and floated into my room. It has drawn me in more and more as she grew more adapt with the passing days. The clicking of the silver keys soothed me and I longed to hear more renditions but she often did not comply. She did what she could to soothe me and then went on with her life. Since our father was in the military, however, we had little choice but to find comfort in eachother. As a result we became dependant on eachother for strength and sobriety. We our parents seperated so did we and our world crashed infront of us. Our relationship became long distance.

I grew to enjoy playing instruments myself. I dabbled in the strings and brass before I grew to a passion of my grandmother's albums. With the sultry tones of Ella Fitzgerald pouring into my room over the speakers and the sweet sensations of Louis Armstrong glancing at the elevation beyond the stars with that trumpet, I became inpassioned with jazz and blues. Only those words, acts, sounds, could take my weakend soul to a new elevation causing me to look beyond my imprisonment at possibilities. Then, as quickly as I had found my hope for happiness, it was dashed infront of me like a priceless heirloom.

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