My father left around five and I finished up playing. I walked upstairs, opened the cabnit, and put a knife in my pocket. Would you honestly expect me to have a real pocketknife? I didn’t want to use, I wasn’t going to use it, I just liked having it. Knowing it was with me kept me happy. I put on my shoes and walked out the door. I wanted to walk up the street to a store. I hoped a man was up there that could help me, but I feared I was too late for him. But I walked. I walked through a neighborhood so I wouldn’t have to be seen by all the people on the main road. I walked past houses hoping no one would notice me, no one would be angry at me. Hoping no one would think I’m not what I appear to be. But there came a part where I had to cross the road and have people see me. As I got near the road, a cop car was going off in a different direction. A part in me wished I had started my walk a little earlier, as to be seen by the cop. So I crossed to road and walked up the stores that were always there, never changing. I came to a store that showed a silhouette of two pieces of wood in a pattern everyone in America would know. I pulled on the handles but it didn’t open, like I thought. I had been up there so many times and pulled on those doors so many times and none of them had proved successful. I had never been in the store. The hours were posted on the door but I kept ignoring them. I hoped for a miracle every time I went up there, hoping someone was there. I left and kept walking. I passed my fourth grade teacher but she didn’t notice me. I looked her in the eyes, and she the same, and I wanted to say hello. I wanted her to say hello, to notice me, to ask me why I was up there, but she didn’t. I wanted things to be good again. I wanted to be back in fourth grade, to be innocent, to love, to feel loved, to not know, and be fine. But this was not the case. I kept walking down a road littered with trash. It was a narrow road; cars would go by no more than two feet from you. I secretly wished a car would “accidently” hit me, at least then someone would ask me if everything was okay. But luck was not with me today. I was headed toward a field that I knew of and I ran toward it. I didn’t know why I ran; I had a knife in my pocket. What could hurt me? I ran through neighbors and friends backyards, part hoping they wouldn’t see me, part hoping they would ask why I was running. I walked through a forest, fearing anything attacking me. I grasped me knife, knowing that if anything went down, I would make the last decision. I was too late for the man but I hoped I wouldn’t be too late for the man’s boss. The sun was setting when I reached the field, but I kept walking, not knowing where to. I wandered past a tree, a big tree. I started singing to myself the song The Dreaming Tree and thought of the people described in the song. As the chorus stopped and said, “the dreaming tree has died” I looked back and thought that the tree I had passed was laying on the ground. I kept walking, still the song playing in my head. I repeated the part saying “take me back” and “save me” and then sat down. I had nowhere to go, my dad wouldn’t be home till eight. The boss wasn’t around here either I figured. I took out the knife and held it, admiring it really. Knowing that I held a world of difference in my hand brought a bittersweet smile to my face. I saw my reflection in the metal; I looked real good in that knife. I pressed it to my forearm a bit, just feeling the flat side. It was cold, that felt good on that hot day. I turned it so that the blade was on my arm. I felt a rush as I did this. I imagined myself hovering over me, looking at a boy with a smile on his face, sitting cross legged in the tall grass, with a knife on his arm. I put the knife away, which was enough for today. I got up and started walking home, past the neighbors and the people. I didn’t care if they saw me, I was happy. I didn’t get to see who I wanted but I satisfied myself. I wondered why I was heading back. I thought maybe it was because I had homework or maybe because I was scared my dad would come home early. I figured it was because I was too scared to rock the boat. I was too scared to do what I really wanted. I was and still am happy with the monotonous of this home and life style. I love to hate it and love it for making me reach in the farthest corners of my mind that painted dark as the pits of hell. In that place, I am healed, and if I leave that, how can I heal myself?