Everyday, at 2:00 PM, I’d look through this window still.
I would stand there with the rest of the crowd, watching. However, my eyes weren’t like all the curious eyes around me. It was because I’d seen it too many times in my life.
Everyday since I was five, I’d hear the same comments about it again and again. The people would describe it as cruel, creepy, sad, interesting, strange, and “scarrryy” as I once recall a three year-old saying and then, hiding behind her mother’s legs. But most of the time, they would just say, “It looks imprisoned.”
The newest one I’ve heard so far was probably when someone said it was cute.

Despite the fact that everyone had a different point of view for it, they would all ask the same question, but not necessarily at the same time or out loud.

“What exactly is that?”

And everyday since I was five, I’d say, “That’s me.”