To my left, my locked bedroom door rattled with the force of a large man's heavy shoulder. I don't know the man--I haven't known him since my mother died.
To my right, an open window lifted and let fall the thinning, oversized curtains. Their dirty yellow arms reached for me, begging me to jump into their embrace.
If I had thought the embrace would be warm and solid instead of cold and unlasting, I might consider a running leap.
Even so, it could very well be better than turning to my left, toward the stranger who calls himself my father. The massive man who still strains the hinges on my door and who has started yelling, telling me that I will regret being born.
Hah! He doesn't know that I already do.
The window knows. It has always known; it just never said anything. It has been a silent friend, waiting for me to run into it's welcoming yellow arms.
I've made the right choice.
