Home

I hate sleeping on busses. You never know the person next to you, and it takes a certain amount of trust that I don't have in that person to be unconcious around them. I didn't care this time, it was just Frank and I in this seat, though I was a little worried he wasn't going to wake me when we got there. I figured he might just keep on riding until he got home, (wherever that is). When we got to Seattle, Frank woke me up and we got off the bus. It's like any other day, but today I know we come to the end of our journey. I know my answer lies here. When I was sleeping, I dreamt of a small house, sort-of dreary, covered in moss from all of the rain here. It's a perfect little house in a terrible neighborhood. It looked dangerous, but I've survived it once. It has to be my final destination. It has to be where my treasure lies. We begin the final stretch of our journey after failing inspecting another locker in the bus station.

"So where are we now?" Frank asked. Of course, I took it as a child asking, are we there yet?, but I know that's not what he meant. I'm just a little irritated because my shoulder is screaming in pain. It seems worse now that we're closer to the goal. It's like the closer we get, the more my brain is telling my shoulder to hurt. Maybe it's because I know we're near the end, but I wish the pain wasn't so present.

"It's right around this corner," I said, "we're so close now." Frank knows I'm excited.

"Are you remembering any of this?" There's a strange question. Frank has some doozies, but this one seemed a bit more direct.

"Of course I do," I say as we round the corner, "I grew up here." Then it dawned on me. I grew up here. I lived here. I was a child here. I started running toward this broken down shack of a house. The roof is sagging and the windows are all boarded up. I start pacing around the front yard frantically, wondering what's become of the place where I used to live. Wasn't it thriving? What of the perfect little house I dreamt of? Now it looks as run down as the rest of this neighborhood.

"What do you see?" Frank asked. "What can you remember? What is this place?" Frank's questions all cut me very deep. Suddenly, I felt like a sharp knife ripped through my shoulder and into my brain. There's pain here, in this place. I run to the door and find a small lock that looks like a lock you would put on a train locker. I reach into my bag and pull that little locker key out. Did the woman on the train know I was her grandson? Did she single me out, knowing where I was going?

"Where are you?" Frank seems like he's yelling from the end of a tunnel. I turn the key and the lock opens.

"What is this place?" Frank yells again. I push open the door. "WHERE ARE YOU?" Frank yells as I walk through the front door. My brain feels like its being ripped from my head. I take a couple steps in and everything starts turning. I can feel my feet go numb. "Where are you?" His questions feel as loud as my heartbeat. I can't breathe. Everything's turning white. I fall to my knees. I feel like every ounce of blood has been drained from my body.

"I remember everything Frank." I say with my last bit of strength. My face hits the ground and I fade back out of consciousness. At least I'm home.