My straitjacket life

The days blur together. I come home from work the same time, on the same bus. The only difference is that each day the sky is a shade darker. Winter is around the corner, I can feel it in my bones. Soon the snow will fall like little mittens from the sky.
My ritual for coming home is as follows. I turn into the driveway, locate the mailbox and fling it open. Usually there's nothing in it because dad comes home for lunch and collects it then. I jump up on the porch, side-stepping the three little steps, and fling the door open and roar: I am home. Usually I then hear the sound of newspaper pages being turned or something fizzling in hot oil on the stove. Or a toilet flushing. I get my boots off as quickly as I can, thing is it's never that fast with Dr. Martens. I race to the counter in the kitchen to see if there's a letter from my dark rebel waiting for me. If there is I smile from within. If there's not, like today, I may throw something, like an apple or the phone book. Or I'll slam a door or start yelling at my parents for not having bought my favorite bread.
And then I hurry down the hallway to my room. Our house feels like a dollhouse; flimsy and with no sound-proofing or privacy.
I lock the door and throw myself on my bed. My bedspread is fuzzy and there's a giant horse on it. I cry. And cry. Until there's time to eat. Then I do that. And then return to my room, my bed and my straitjacket sheets. My straitjacket life.