You learned to hate the color yellow. It covered your bedroom walls and despite your incessant complaining to your parents, you were never allowed to break it up with any decor. It wasn't a huge deal-- you wouldn't be there long. You knew that the moment you turned eighteen, you'd leave to live on your own.

Your parents always made you think red because that was often the color of their crinkled foreheads. You never understood how they were always angry. It seemed exhausting to spend so much effort looking for something to be aggravated over. You had always been easy-going, always able to talk yourself out of showing your temper. You did what you were told and kept your mouth shut when you disagreed with something. 

By the time you were thirteen, you'd grown accustomed to black bruises on your chest, your back, your face. Your parents had found an outlet, and you'd spent most of your time in your room seeking the refuge of your yellow walls. You listened to a lot of music, using headphones to drown out the sound of the screaming and banging. You liked your music loud.

You remember how blue the sky was that day. Music surrounded you, it seemed, as you sat in your windowsill, tapping your foot to the rhythm of Kenny Aronoff's drumming. The faint sound of voices slipped through the music. The voices got louder and louder as their sources got closer and closer. You let out a quiet sigh, glancing at the door with apprehension as the doorknob twisted. Your parents came through the doorway before you could blink. Your body tensed as your father looked at you and pointed toward your door. You turned up the volume of your music to drown out the yelling. Your mother shoved your father into the wall and punched him in the throat. You remembered what it had been like after you'd swallowed those walnuts-- your throat felt tight and hot. 

Pink Houses blasted from your headphones as you stood frozen, watching your father recoil in fear. Your mother grabbed your arm and shoved you into the narrow hall. An instinctive jerk away from her fist sent you falling down a flight of stairs. The music raised in volume, the frequency getting higher and higher until your eardrums burst.  

Your new room had gray walls. You didn't like the color-- you thought it was boring-- but you didn't complain. Your foster parents were nice, and patient, and supportive. They started putting pictures around the house, taping them onto any surface that would stick. You would go to the bathroom and mimic the motion portrayed by the image on the door-- a hand wiggling back and forth in the shape of the letter "T."

The only hoodie you owned was lime green and you hated it because it made you feel like you stood out in a crowd. You learned that people stared a lot when you wore a hearing aid. You started learning a lot about people, things you had never noticed before. You learned that when people lie, their eyes don't smile with their lips. You learned that when people talk to each other, they don't always maintain eye contact. You learned that when there is a slight communication barrier, people often decide that the effort isn't worth figuring out what you have to say.

Your face was pale and ghostly the day you went to the mall. You didn't go often, but your shoes were more hole than fabric. You didn't feel well that day, but it was the day after Thanksgiving, and so the prices on everything were marked down enough for you to afford to make a purchase. Your foster parents offered to pay, but you never liked accepting money from people. Not when you could figure it out yourself. 

You picked at your maroon-painted fingernails, entirely unaware of what you were doing. Now, you figure that feeling sick had caused you to lose control. At the time, you didn't understand any of it. You had set off a high pitched blare, exploding in volume. Glass shattered and people were brought to their knees clutching their ears. 

The gray stone at Monroeville was nothing like the soothing gray of the walls of your bedroom at home. You walked into the building but you don't remember moving. You don't remember thinking. You were imprisoned. You are imprisoned.