If my mind is a labyrinth then I must find my way around.

I walk slowly, cautiously, eyeing the hallways that carefully labeled my age. First taking a stop at yellow brick lining the floor, glistening . The sound of deafening kazoos and kaotic kids, all around. Then I saw myself sitting in the birthday chair, present in hand. The beautifully wrapped present is large, and silver topped with a bow. Ripped apart crudely by tiny hands, my tiny hands. Then my father says something, but his sentence is chopped short by the sheer force of my squeal. My tiny body, rockets up the steps a horde of six year old girls tromping after me. I throw my door open to see an enthralling snow white pup, a big red bow around his head. I close the door to my memory a smile still glowing on my face, that is until I saw it. The door that had blood dripping from it, the door stated my age in this memory, eight.  I opened the door to see myself for some reason crawling on the floor. I winced, I knew exactly what was going to happen. I remember this every time I thought about it I could nearly feel the pain again. My body, or at least the memory of it, writhed and wretched on the floor as blood flowed freely from my hand, staining my body and all those near. The screams sounded like I was being ripped apart limb from limb and in my mind, that what it felt like. Without my consent I was propelled into another memory so forcefully I could’ve gotten whiplash. In this one I’m 11 under the door are tears a river of them. My mother kicking out my father. I’m beginning to not like this Labyrinth. No, I don’t like it at all.