My Very First Epilogue

I normally don't write stories, or even epilogues. If I do, it's because it's a requirement. I don't write any, because I know I'm not that good at it. I get to the point too quickly, or sometimes I get tired of writing the story. I find myself writing poems, reflections, or just blogging. But a few months ago, we were asked to make an epilogue for the Catcher in the Rye, a wonderful book. If you haven't read it, you should. I really enjoyed writing it. I read the whole book while I was on the plane. The flight was about twelve hours long, and I had a lot of time to reflect on the book. I've decided to post a part of it here, only because it's the first epilogue or story that I'm actually proud of.

The Catcher in the Rye Epilogue

So I was sent back to this sanctuary. For others it’s prison, but for me, it’s sort of like home. I spent about three years with my parents, until I broke my mothers useless, old teacup again. It was no accident. I just had to break it. I wanted to.

It’s been years since I’ve taken a walk around New York. I’m pretty sure that I’ve missed Phoebe grow up. She’s been sending me these newspapers every week with her articles on them. She’s the only one that writes to me. It’s the closest thing I get to being part of her life. She’s a pretty good writer, and she knows it.

They’re finally letting me out today. I just finished packing up, although there isn’t much to bring. They don’t really let you keep that much things with you while you’re here.

It’s been years since I was actually left completely alone. There’s always some annoying person watching whatever I do. They all thought I was going to kill myself, but I was too busy thinking about stuff to ever to do it. Besides there wasn’t anything in the room I could use to do it. I know every single part of the room, and the closest thing you get to dangerous is bumping your head on the goddamn wall.

They just dropped me off a few blocks away from the building. I decided to walk to Phoebe’s office. The sun seemed brighter than I remembered, and New York looked a lot more different than how Phoebe described it in her letters. It didn’t seem as sad as it was.

I’m right outside the window of Phoebe’s office. She looks way too into what she’s doing. She looks so grown up. She used to visit me about a year ago. But when I saw her through that window, she seemed different.

I was probably standing outside that window for about an hour and a half. Phoebe walked out off her desk a few minutes ago, but I just kept staring through the window hoping that she would go back to her desk. I was too busy doing that that I didn’t see her walk out of the building. She grabbed me by the arm and yelled my name so loud. She looked so happy.