Creative Writing: Coming Home Ethan Vangosen

Coming Home Ethan Vangosen

p.3 Ottenad

Adv. LA I see darkness with my eyes closed like a night with no moon or stars to talk to. My eyes open to glare of light flashing over me after sleeping for what feels like eternity. There is a man hovering over me with white clothes giving him the appearance of a cloud. He has on dull blue gloves and a face mask covering his scruffy beard. The room is dark except for the small light that looms over me and the window in which light beams over onto the ground. The carpet, which I usually see, is out of view due to the walls confining me in a place called a “C-R-I-B”. The ceiling is composed of gray tiles that have a rough texture. The only door, made of wood,

it's the door swinging open. Outside stands a shadowy figure walking slowly towards the light above me. The figure moves closer and closer. The figure comes to the light and it appears to be a middle-age man. He has stubble that stands up like copper wire and his is very distinctive. This man – – is my father. His arms reach out to me in the crib. He picks me up, holding me in his arms rocking. I notice something is wrong. He is walking toward the door, the boundary in which I never cross. Foot by foot, my father moves closer to the door. We cross the doorway. The light from all the windows I had been missing blinds me like a bat in the midday sun. I had been in such a dark place for so long that I lost all sense of light. My brother comes out of the room being carried by a tall, middle-aged woman with long brown hair—my

I lay on the carrier, looking over at him. He is gripping the gray smooth cart with his hands. I feel a small vibration rumble from the wheels below. The cart is moving. I see my father push the carta with his hands. We start to move away from the door that confined me for two weeks of my life. The world seems to move around me. Walls that were once far away inch closer until they pass me. I am confused. He is pushing the cart the wrong way. The nursery is on the right down the long hallway the stretches like spider webs. On the left—a bright hallway that turns son I cannot see its end. A sign on the wall says "L-O-B-B-Y"" and has an arrow pointing in the direction down the hall. The cart, still moving inches closer to the lobby. I get a feeling the I'd never had before—as sense of nervousness. My heart starts to beat a little faster the closer we get to the lobby. My mind races with the thoughts of what lay around the corner. I wonder if I am overreacting or if I have a reason to overreact. We are a foot away. My heart feels like its is going to beat out of my