Sweet Escape BY DANYA VOLLENWEIDER As I lie here, on the cold, hard floor – totally entranced in the quietness – my breathing is the only noise that echoes from the white walls. Upon closing my eyes, I can feel my body become heavier until my breathing stops. They did not mean to harm me. They wanted the best for me. They were doing the best they could. But I suffered, and they knew. For one, there were my two friends who stayed with me despite the cancelling of plans all the time, understanding of the fact I wasn't allowed to leave the house if it weren’t for school or other necessities that had nothing fun about them. They built my personality outside of school, and “home”, and hugged me tight when the summer holidays came around, unable to see each other again for months on end. If it weren’t for them, I wouldn’t be here. If it weren’t for them, I would’ve never met Cleo. If it weren’t for Cleo, who helped me learn the basics – how to cook a nice dinner, how to vacuum a floor, how to do laundry – by letting me sleep over when I told my parents we would be “studying for an exam”, I wouldn't be here. She, who did not treat me like a child or a victim, but rather a pitiful person with a sheltered upbringing who did not and was not allowed to live like a child, teenager and adult, and who saw that, despite what I was – or rather, what I wasn’t - taught, still believed in me and pushed me to my limits. If it weren’t for my aunt, who did not learn about my existence until a few months ago, I wouldn't be here. She, who was so similar to my parents, yet so
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