Every day after school, when I get home my mom immediately grips my arm and escorts me unceremoniously towards a door at the end of the hall. Dragging it open, she then shoves me through the door, leaving me full of blind panic as I fall down the stairs. When the dust settles, I usually either just lie down and stare at my sparse surroundings, or I stand up and brush myself off. Then I work on the welcomed distraction of homework until a measly dinner, normally consisting of a chunk of mystery meat and stale bread, drops down from the corroded trapdoor in the ceiling. After that I have to elude the overwhelming numbers of rats that I share a space with. Sometimes I triumph and stand at uppermost place I can find, the barren, stone bed. Sometimes I suffer defeat at the hands of my inconsiderate roommates and go to bed hungry. At the end of the day, I await the release from my confinement to have a blessed school day.