The Coldest Place

The coldest place I have ever been was my father’s apartment.  All the walls were white and all the furniture was black.  Once he had moved out of our family home and into his own apartment, I knew he was looking to start over.  He left our comfortable style and house for an entirely new modern look.  He didn’t even have any pictures or artwork on his wall.  Though my parents hadn’t said anything out loud, I had felt the tension in the house for several months.  I had a feeling they had been fighting behind closed doors, but my school activities kept me fairly busy after school so when I had time, I tried to hang out with my friends. 

Since I was an only child, I sometimes felt a little stifled when I was home with my parents.  Especially my father.  I don’t think my father ever really wanted to have kids and my suspicions were all but confirmed when I saw his new apartment.  After a few months I realized I was spending more time and my father’s apartment and less time with my mother in our house.  When I finally got to thinking about it, he never asked questions and always let me come and go whenever I wanted.  This brief period of time was when I finally became truly myself and the first time I spent the night in jail.  The first time, but with my new friends, I knew it wouldn’t be the last. 


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