I am sitting in this house with my face pressed against the window, wondering how the fuck do I get out when the door is right there. I can hear them killing people in the next room over, but I cannot see it, so I ask myself: can I live with the sound of people dying? I can drown it out if I sing to myself, right? I can pretend that it is not happening.
I look out the window and I long to be out there, but I have also heard so many tales about how scary it is out there, that everyone out there hates me already, and I do not want to be there. People are hammering on the door, begging to get in, but little do they know that there is murder in this house. I just so happen to be lucky enough to be in this sunny, clean room where everything is pretty okay, except that I can hear people getting murdered in the next room over.
What is it like out there. Can I survive in here. When they are done killing people in the next room over, will they come for me next? Will they cut off my feet if they know that I am dreaming of running away?
Will someone out there save me? Or will they burn this entire house down with me in it. If they stop the killing in the next room over, will they drag me out and keep me warm? Or will I be tried as guilty for sitting here in silence with the sound of murder in my ears.
Oh, how I wish they would stop killing people in the next room over. It sounds atrocious. I wonder – am I the one who has to go in there and stop it? I look around at everyone else in the room – if none of them are doing anything about it, why am I the one who should start? I am not the strongest or the swiftest among us. If these people who are much wiser and quick than I – if they do nothing to stop it, maybe I should sit here, too, rocking back and forth and quietly humming. If I burst into that room and demand they stop, they will probably just kill me, too.
Why is the world like this, and why I am here in it, like this, right now? This is such a beautiful room to sit in, but I am still dying to get out.