Page 47 - Student: dazed And Confused

They can be trying to escape anything, anybody - often the past, and people from
the past. But you can't run away from the past, you can't bury it because it always comes
back to get you. The White Room isn't always busy with people, though it is sometimes, it's
busy with memories. People are always thinking here, that's what makes it busy, noisy.
This safe place isn't called the White Room because everything is white, we're
allowed to decorate it how we want - there's a different theme in each corner of the room
at the moment; gothic, Victorian, eco-friendly, hi-tech. No, it's called that because this is
where certain people come to ju st. be, without any repercussions. And, like me, they come
here to deal with their pasts and wipe the slate clean, start again with a clean sheet. It will
become clear why I am here, why any of us are here. Sometimes I think it should have been

my father in here instead of me.
All around me today is conversation. Except, it isn't really conversation, just people
talking. It doesn't make that much sense to me because it seems meaningless. "Still
writing?" I was asked. "Does your hand hurt? I bet you're all cramped up. Does it hurt?"
asked Tom, a young man in his thirties.
Do you see what I mean about it appearing meaningless. "Yes, it hurts." I told him.
"It's no good unless it hurts." I flexed my fingers and showed him my stiff hand. If you think
about it, he could have been asking if it hurt to bring it all back; I really believe that he can
think like that, carry double meanings. Tom may have just been asking if my hand was

aching after writing for so long, I suppose I'll never know for sure. He took my hand and
began massaging my palm with his fingers - he's very good at that - and my muscles
immediately began to loosen up.
"Does it feel better now?"
I didn't know if he meant my stiff hand or my still foggy mind, but both were
beginning to feel better. "Yes." He wandered off on another trip to nowhere in particular,
leaving me, once more to my writing.
I know I can't hide from it, I can't pretend that this didn't happen.
It would be wrong to try to wipe it from my mind. I can't deny that I sometimes
wonder what life might have been like if I had chosen a different path, if I had stopped the

girl from doing what she did. Things might be exactly the same as they are now, or they
might be completely the opposite. I know I shouldn't be thinking about what might have
been, what could still be for people reading this, but I can't stop wondering. The eternal
question: What if..?
So, I'm sitting at a table writing my stories. alone. Alone and in the middle of all this
activity. Sometimes, that's the loneliest place to be - you feel the isolation hit you even
harder. There is the old television set rattling away by the window, showing The Wizard Of
Oz, if only it was that easy to go home, and I can just about hear it as I am writing. We're all
lonely in here. We have each other to talk to, but we're alone. We don't communicate with

each other; we don't know how to interact.
Everyone in this place has got their own problems, has a difficult past to deal with,
have done awful things, but I don't think I'll ever really identify with them. They treat