I want to go back.

I want to go home - to the pastures. The glorious pastures that burst with life, the sapphire blues of the afternoon sky, crisp against the endless bright greens. Delicate creams of the blossom, so fragile one would almost be afraid to touch it for fear of the soft hue shattering like a fallen wine glass from the guest cabinet. I could walk on the pastures until the sun went to bed, all without running into a soul. It was my own world.

Here I am petrified. The crystal colours of the sky I had grown so accustomed to are a forlorn grey. It is almost as if God himself wishes ignorance of this place. The only greens are putrid, and caused by decay. The creams I waited all year for, only mirrored in people's skin. It is impossible to move, no, breath even, without being uncomfortably close to a stranger. It is painfully obvious I don't belong in this place.

"I'm scared." I whimper, clutching onto the bejewelled locket that hangs around my slender neck.

I had received this locket for my tenth birthday from mamar. It has a gold shine, and was littered with sapphires, diamonds and emeralds in the shape of a meadow against the sky. My locket is heavy, and cold against my chest, it would bounce against me when I ran, with my pale blue dress and a handful of forget-me-nots and violets in my hand.

That feels so long ago now. The floor here is littered, not with soft petaled flowers, but with long dried blood, urine and moulding sick. I do not ever wish to touch this ground. I will never wish to be here. The young mother's piteous cries mingled with her baby's as she let it fall. The scenery is far from my meadow, nothing like my glass-cut memories. This place stinks of alcohol, and not the good kind. As a child, I had been occasionally allowed some of my parents' wine at dinner, but mostly I had beer. Both of those left one with a feeling of warmth, but this? This is the drink of a man who wishes to be anywhere but this world. The smell alone could leave a man gagging. As if that wasn't poor enough, decay is everywhere. Nobody seems to care they are drowning in this putrid air.

Pasture smells, however, always felt relaxing. The faint scent of cut grass, harmonious with the fresh straw for the animals. In the orchard the bliss of apples, on the walls, roses. In the winter our house was warmed with applewood, whose soft smell would fill my room, providing comfort in the bitterly cold night.

In the city one is deafened by screams of infants and children clashing with the drunken shouts from the floor. Crying and moaning surround you until you are, yourself, in the misery you see.

My home is peaceful. In the house, one can be bothered by the staff's bustle in the kitchen, and the cleaning of the rooms. But outside, stand with one's eyes closed and the gentle rustle of the wind in the trees will combine with the bird's song to create a gentle symphony.

You are always well fed while living on the pastures with three meals of enviable food every day. I miss the feeling of a full stomach.

I can not see a soul here who appears well fed. Many are walking skeletons. I can see a man who is reduced to stealing a bone from a dog to have the sense of food in his mouth. It's almost as though we reverted to animals, at least the ones at home didn't steal. I feel like a caged bird who flew away, only to find no way back.

As foolish as sounds, I, too, am tempted to steal 'food' from the animals I see. There simply is no food to eat around these parts. The man gnawing at the bone is much better fed than many of the others one would see.

I want to go back to the pastures.