When I look over, I see a door I hadn't noticed before. Has it always been there?

When I open the door, I'm disappointed that it doesn't lead to freedom. It leads, instead, to a very bright, almost industrial-looking bathroom. It smells as though it's recently been cleaned with bleach. The tile looks like it's several hundred years old. It looks like the bathroom from my elementary school. What is this place? A terrible amalgamation of places from my childhood? How did I get here? How do I get out?

My eyes survey the bathroom so reminiscent of my elementary school bathroom that it may as well be an exact replica. A smile crosses my face. I kicked a lot of ass in that bathroom.

Not that I'm promoting violence, by any means. Not anymore, at least. But there was a time when I had to prove I could take care of myself, even when nobody else would.

"What's up, pencil dick?" It was the strongest of fifth-grade insults. Nobody could say anything nearly as offensive as that. Except for me. I was armed and ready with the perfect comeback, just sitting in my pocket, waiting to be played.
"You mad 'cause it's twice as big as yours?"

This was met with peals of laughter from the boys who'd entered the bathroom with Chris. Chris, on the other hand, was rather less than amused.

"The shit did you just say?" Chris demanded, pushing me, making me lose my footing.

Unable to control my aim, urine flew around the room, coating everything in a layer of piss, including the leg of Chris's pants.

"Why'd you do that?" Chris was furious, his nostrils flaring at me as if I had done it on purpose.

"You pushed me dumbass," I spat back. That was when it dawned on me just how outnumbered I was. CHris was here to settle some beef. We had been mortal enemies since we started school. I just didn't expect it to be that day in the bathroom in the fifth grade, the day before CHristmas break. I had actually been having a good year. I had actually stayed out of trouble for an entire semester.

Quickly, I zipped up my pants and felt my fists instinctively clench. I didn't want to fight Chris, but I wasn't going to let him win. This wouldn't be the first time I made somebody bleed in this bathroom.

Later, any time I would reflect on this particular fight, I couldn't remember anything. I remember throwing the first punch, and then the next thing I knew, I was in the principal's office, bruised, with bloody knuckles and a broken nose.

But this time I could remember every horrific detail of that day. This time it was like some curtain was pulled back and I was forced to see the monster that I actually was. I was forced to relive every blow I threw, every punch I took. I was forced to witness myself not just fight, but destroy a bathroom full of fourth- and fifth-grade boys.

Helplessly, I stood witness as I doubled up my first and swung at Chris's face. There was an audible sound of impact as I hit him. The blow landed so hard, Chris was knocked off his feet. His forehead smashed into a urinal and he looked up, dazed. Two of his buddies ran to help him up while another ran to the office, probably to tattle on me.

"Don't help him," I spat, kicking one of Christs' lackeys. "If he thinks he's big enough to fight me, then he's big enough to stand up on his one."

"I didn't do anything to you," he whimpered, staying curled up long after I had kicked him.

"I didn't do anything to you," I sneered back, my voice high-pitched and mocking.

As I watched my past self, my stomach churned. I felt sick. These were kids. I was a kid. How had I become so broken? How had I become so vile?

Suddenly, a fist slammed into my cheek, disorienting me momentarily. That one had some heat behind it. I was kind of impressed.

Before I could focus on the hit, another blow landed at the temple on the opposite side of my head. Blindly, I shed out, catching Chris's other friend in the chest. It was a weak punch, but it was enough to shock him, leaving him open for another attack. This time, I'd make it count.

I lunged at him, knocking him to the ground. Climbing on top of him, I let my frustrations out. My hands grew a mind of their own, swinging wildly. I felt the skin on my knuckles rupture. I pulled my fist back again, but before I could take another swing, the sole of Chris's boot hit me square in the face.

"Stop!" I finally hear my voice shout, echoing around the bathroom. Not my child voice, but my adult voice. It overpowers the brawl in front of me and my memory vanishes like mist before me.

"Stop," I gasp again, but there's nobody left to hear me. Though the fight dissipated, I can still hear voices swirling around me. The principal calling home. My dad yelling at me through the receiver. The secretary muttering that I'm just like my dad.

"Leave me alone," I growled both in my adult voice and my child voice. "Shut up. I'm not like him."

But she was right, and this fight proved it. If the principal had not showed up, I might have killed Chris. And it wouldn't have bothered me. THat was the scariest part. I would not have even cared.

"I'm not like him" I sobbed, over and over, tucking my face into my hands and crying. "I am not him. I am not him."

When I look up, I'm back in the bathroom in the hotel, the sparkling white facsimile of my past. Tears stream down my face as I try to pull myself up.

What is this place? I ask myself for the hundredth time. What am I doing here? And why?

"What am I doing here?" I scream, my voice echoing back to me a hundred times over.

I feel my fists double up instinctively and I want to swing at something, but everything in here is tile and porcelain and solid. And the solid things win against fists every time. I've learned that too many times in my life.

Anger fills my body, but it has nowhere to go. It surges through my veins. It pulsates through my muscles. It overtakes me until I'm screaming, doubled over with pain and frustration and anguish.I'm not screaming anything intelligible, it's just raw, unbridled, uncontrollable anger, given life by my voice.

I don't know how long I scream, but some time, hours or days or seconds later, my throat is raw and my head is throbbing. My eyes are swollen from crying. I fall to the ground and press my face against the cool tile. It has an almost numbing effect in stark contrast to the heat that has engulfed my face.