Feral child

Feral child in the

The judge’s chambers, where grown-ups discuss binding the future

They always fingerprint you, even if you were there a week before. After the police signed me over to the guy behind the curtain, I sat there wondering my fate in a poorly lit concrete box. Hours ticked by; I went mad, screaming, kicking walls, spitting insults into cameras. Silence only came when I had strained my throat, exhaustion overtook me. I slept on the slab of coldness.

I dreamt I went into the mountains I dreamt I gathered lumber I dreamt I had no tools to build my home

no hands to clap

dreamt only stubs for crying

By the time I was 15, I was a regular at the local Juvenile Delinquent Hall—JDH. Many times I had gone there willing, just wanting to sleep somewhere warm, after yet another failed runaway attempt.

Most of the guards in kid jail were the kind and caring type, many had children our ages, and generally handled us compassionately, if not sympathetically.

Summer did it to me. Often.