“I have to go home.” The thought alone makes me want to throw up. In the past six years, I have never had the pull to go home. Do I think of home every single night right before I go to bed? Yes. Is it a good memory? No. It’s what nightmares are made of. It’s the reason I’m breathing through life and not actually living. In reality, I died eight years ago. My heart is the only thing that didn’t stop that night. Everything else did.
