These are the facts as of, today, my name is Sydney Jones.

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She was draped in black, when the wheels of the stretcher appeared down the hall - her face covered so the bruises wouldn't show. The nurses were crowded in the hall like they've never seen someone rolled out of here.

Emerson's family came by early the next day, her mothers face wet with tears, I watched from the small window on my door - her hands shaking with fear and legs trembling with instability. She was definitely from Homewood, even in such shock her features were beautiful, soaked in tears her face was beautifully masked with makeup. Two girls almost as tall as her followed far behind, I still couldn't tell where Emerson got her height but he sisters seemed to inherit it too. dragging their feet against the smooth floors leaving scuff marks, imprinting that they had walked the same halls Emerson walked before she met her demise.

It was announced, later in the evening that day that group therapy was cancelled, so while I waited for lounge time, I started counting the tiles once again, shifting - jumbling up on the white walls like they were hiding behind each other from anyone watching. They were all the same, it was hard to differenate if it was still single tile, on it's own, that I was looking at or one hiding behind another for protection, in fear of being judged for having cracks down the middle or losing it's color - fading to dirty yellow. But, in an instinct, they all turned black - the walls black, and I could relax.

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Everyone was gathered in the lounge, grief counselors posted against the doors, tissues placed on every table.

Some kids with wet eyes.
Some with red eyes.
Some unbothered.
Others, devastated.

Grief counseling is mandatory, you ladies and gentlemen are not okay, they assumed. Crazy, overgrown children in crazy houses are, unfortunately, not okay.

I waited to be called back, when she approached me from across the room, "Hi, I'm Roy," the thin girl extended her hand to me after dropping her black pencil onto the table where she had placed her crumbled paper - across from me.

I grabbed and shook it, "Sydney. Sydney Jones." I smiled a kind smile just like hers.

She was pretty, her hair neatly brushed into a high bun, tightly wrapped. She looked no older than 10.

I looked at her, and she stared back confidently, flashing a teeth less smile. We sat this way for about a minute before she spoke again, "do you like it?" She pushed her paper closer to me and my heart almost stopped.

I examined the paper, petrified, no, I mumbled - but, all the details were there. This was real.

"No!" I shouted.

"You don't like it?" Her soft voice squeaked in the background of all the others noise, her tone neither defensive or disappointed, only mocking.

I looked up at her, not necessarily saying her picture was ugly, it was drawn with such grace, intensifying every detail right down to the size of the ears, I didn't wanna hurt her feelings yet I still choked out the word - no.

"You don't like art?"

Once everyone stood and sat, walked into closed off rooms, talked to counselors, shredded tears, ate dinner, in unison we'd all got locked away - the metal doors slamming behind, the click of the lock echoing through the cells, reminding us once again that we aren't free.

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