I've known since the first moment we shut ourselves in, and I knew we were committed, that The Tower wasn't right for me. I didn't pack. I laughed a lot. Carelessly threw a few things in a couple of bin-liners as if I'd be back in a week. Those who knew me best said I was in denial, maybe I was. I guess when your gut tells you something, you ought to believe yourself not just blame excitement or nerves. I couldn't see it. I couldn't see myself planting crops out there, nor entertaining in those rooms, or writing anywhere. I can't see them, growing in this house.
If someone asked me what's wrong with it, I could list off a few things, but really, it's not something I can pinpoint. I can only say...this isn't Connie, and I have tried so very hard to make it so, in my head and my heart but I can't. It's not here. This isn't where I should be. I think a part of me has seen into the future, seen what's to come and I know how it should feel.
I don't miss everything about Connie, I don't miss my four walls of childhood.
I just miss the feeling of coming home.
I haven't come home since August.
Everything will change again September this year. Everything always restarts in September. I have no intention of still being here by then. I'll cut my path back to Connie, I'll make sure it works out. Jones will be with me, he's always on my side where it counts. At least that's the one constant thing in my life. Here it's an oubliette but Jones never forgets me.