The Prodigal Girl Returns Home (StoryADay Post)

Rembrandt, The Return of the Prodigal Son, 166...
Rembrandt, The Return of the Prodigal Son, 1662–1669 (Hermitage Museum, St Petersburg) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I just want to get home.

Why is this a problem?

Let me tell you about what happened to get me here to this point in time

It was last year that it happened, yet like it was yesterday. I was just sitting outside my front yard, with my parents being gone for the day and all my friends doing their own thing. My brothers…yeah, I was supposed to be watching them, but they used the lame, worn-out excuse of “we’re too old for a sitter” to keep me out of their business and away from the TV and the computer. Feeling boxed out, I decided to sit outside.

Within a few moments, my entire life changed forever when some person dressed in black and wearing a black hoodie approached me, saying, “You’re coming with me, crazy.”

Now, I’m not crazy, yet I have a bit of an unhealthy obsession of remaining a kid; I just didn’t want to grow up. I was 14 years old and things were expected of a 14-year-old girl, such as the expectation that I stop playing with toys and instead focus my energy on more important things, such as boys, makeup, and even school.

But I don’t want to focus on these things because I just want to stay a kid. Why is that so hard for everyone to understand?

Anyway, I’m being dragged away from my front yard, and no one reached out to help me. Even worse, it seemed that no one seemed to care about my fate at all.

Why me, and why not anyone else?

I soon found myself in a dark room in a huge house at the edge of town, to be put away and forgotten about for the rest of my life. Sure, I was fed and given clothes to wear, but I wasn’t allowed to leave my room at all. For an entire year, I was trapped in this room; the room had four bare walls and a tiny window. The only piece of furniture was a bed, and I spent most of my time lying on it, thinking about how I got to this point in my life and why I was taken away from everything and everyone that I knew. Why was I kidnapped and brought here? Who took me? Why did they take me? Something wasn’t right here.

I will tell you that I have spent a year in this place. One year of my life, lost inside that strange white room. I was grateful that no one beat me up or worse, but apart from being given food and clothes, no one said anything to me, not even a word of “hello”.

This form of isolation is the worst thing I had to endure. No human contact, no one to talk to, and not even a word. I tried talking to some imaginary friends, but the only sound that I could hear was the sound of my own voice, so I gave up talking and concentrated on how to survive.

Surviving was all I could do right now, since I had nothing else. I had no toys to play with, or TV to watch, so I had to make do with what I had. Luckily, I was carrying a notebook and a pen when I was kidnapped, and I used that to write down various stories that were in my head. I was told that I had a great imagination and was very good at writing stories, but I just laughed it off or dismissed the comments as a fool. There was no need for me to get myself suckered into fantasy. (I don’t do fantasy)

After filling in my entry for the day, I had nothing else to do but to sit back on the bed and read what I had written. I was bored beyond belief and there was not a night that went by when I didn’t cry my eyes out.

I just wanted to go home.


Home meant my house, the house that I grew up in. The home I was taken away from. Home meant family, the family that was probably grieving for me. The family that was looking for me. My father and mother and brothers. My family.

I had no idea of what I truly had until I was taken.

But how to get home, I wondered. I had no idea of where I was and I’m quite sure that where ever I was was far away from the city. Possibly in a place that was so far away that if anything were to happen to anyone, no one would know or care.

Distance was my first problem.

The second was fear. Fear of the unknown. The fear that if I were to return, no one would recognize me at all.

And who would? To most of the members of the community, I was the “crazy girl”, the girl who always kept to herself, the girl who had no friends. I knew that if I came home, no one would recognize me.

OK, so maybe going home is out of the question.

Which brings me to my third issue: trust.

For starters, I do not appear to trust people, not even my own family. (Something must be wrong with me if I can’t even trust my own family.) Also, I tended to judge people before I got to know them.

So, was trust one of the reasons why I was kidnapped?

Well, let’s take a look at what we have are:

  1. I was sitting in my front yard when someone came up and snatched me.
  2. I was taken to a huge house at the edge of town.
  3. I spent a year in a small room in the huge house.

Well, not much for recollection, but this is what I have.

I put the notebook away and prepare for the next meal. The meals always consisted of oatmeal, a hand full of raisins, and a cup of water. I could barely recall the taste of other food or soda. As for clothes, most of them were blue jumpsuits, as I forgot that clothes existed.

As I ate my poor sad meal of the day, I found myself thinking about the possibility of escape. I knew that I was left alone most of the time, and if I were to escape, then no one would miss me until it was too late.

Just like on that one TV show that everyone in my school was talking about, the show where a boy was kidnapped by some crazy people and he finds a way to escape from them and going home.

I bet that my life was mirroring the show (even if I have never watched the show to begin with.), but would that be enough to help me live?

That same night, I was staring at my notebook when I noticed the door was open. Stuffing my notebook down my front, I knew that it was now or never. I had to take that chance.

Just like that, my entire life boiled down to just one moment. Was I going to escape from this room or was I going to just keep standing in their wallowing in the filth of my disparity?

I found myself running toward the door and before I knew it, I was out of the room and out of the building. I had escaped. I was now free.

But as I kept running, I began to think of the story of the prodigal son, the son who wasted his money and lost everything and ended up having to return home. But his father was pleased to see his son again, as his son had finally return home.

With that story firmly placed in my head, I kept running until I could run no more. At that point, I was back in town, but still far off from my home.

And like the father who spotted his son and ran out to greet him, I saw my parents running towards me and hugged me. I knew that they had missed me and never stopped looking for me since the day that I disappeared.

Like that, I was home.

I know that I would have an uphill battle, such as telling everyone where I was for the past year and tons of apologizing to do regarding how I treated everyone, but if I could survive painful isolation for a year, I could survive anything.

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