Hey guys!!! I know that I've been gone for a long time, but my other story, Crossed Paths, has been giving me some serious writers block. So I put this on as a filler! I originally wrote this a year ago for an English project, and my friends loved it. I know it's short, but there was a page limit. So here it is!!! ENJOY!!!!!!

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Holden, 10 Years Later

I'm sure you want to hear all about my life after I went back home. I'm also sure you want to know my parents reaction to my 'rampage' in New York City and what they did to 'such disrespectful young man who has no regard for his family name what so ever' and how crappy it was. Two words. Too. Bad. I don't feel like talking about all that crap. It depresses me. But one thing about that killed me. The guards at that phsycoward.

When their superiors where around, they would act all tough and crap. Like the way they treated us was them being merciful. Honestly, it killed me. 'Cause when the guys up top were gone, they would wet their pants and toss their cookies, they were so scared. I would laugh so hard at it all, and rather evilly, if I do say so myself, they would back away from my room and start sweating like pigs.

I was the craziest guy in that dump, I swear. Yeah, I got thrown back in, many times. Crumby parents. Crumby Board of Directors.

Well, I did get into Yale. Suddenly, I'm the smart one of the family. It killed me. Musta been the meds they had given me. Goddamn 'anti-depressants'. They made me so gullible. The therapists kept saying crap like "You have to apply yourself this year" and Do well and it will pay off." And I believed them.

Crumby therapists.

Remember Ole Stradlater? Turns out he didn't give the time to Jane Gallagher. I did. She was the one girl who never said stop. Damn. She was prettier than that prostitute and better a dancer than that blond girl from the club in New York. Sunny and Whats- Her- Face. It killed me. It really did.

I grabbed my old red hunting hat and pulled the rim to the back of my head. The fact that this hat survived this long kills me, I swear. The color faded to this ugly brown color and the edges are all frayed. When I look at it, it depresses me, but when I wear it, I feel, as corny as this sounds, like I'm on top of the world.

I hate it when people say that kind of thing. There is no freaking top of the world. But they say it anyways. I even say it sometimes. It kills me.

I walked out of my apartment and into the 'bustle' that is New York. The city that never sleeps. Pshft. You should see it in the morning. Everyone is half dead and are walking like athletic zombies.

I have a job at my father's law firm. Yeah, I'm a 'sleazy lawyer'. You just keep calling me that when you need a good lawyer and no one will be your lawyer. Huh, lets see you then. I will have the last laugh. Hah!!!!!

My therapists tell me I have to stop going on random rants and talking to you guys, the 'voices in my head', as it were. Too bad. It's fun.

The women in this city are getting uglier by the second. I suppose they're supposed to be good-looking and all, but the crap they put on just makes it worse. Jeez. It depresses the hell out of me.

I'm off to the court house to work on my defendant, who is being tried for manslaughter. This depresses me. He is only 25, a year younger than me. And I'm supposed to fight my case against one of the best lawyers in the city, my own father. That just depresses me even more. How the hell am I supposed to keep this kid out of death row, and against my father?!

The court house is this huge building that makes you feel like an ant when you look up at the lightning rod at the top. It kills me to see tourists practically bending over backwards to see the top. It's hilarious when the little kids lean over so far they fall on their heads. Of course, we can't laugh at them. Other wise, we have to be our own lawyers. It is not fun, let me tell you.

So, anyways. The kid I'm defending is very, 'hoodlummy' I guess you could say. He has this dark greasy hair, and his eyes are tis really freaky blue-gray. I guess he could be considered handsome, I don't know, ask a girl. But let me tell you this. This guy was huge. He could probably bench twice my weight. And he stands at a cool 6'7". Towers even over my 6'2". You could see him a mile away at the entrance to my office. Yes, I have an office, now shut up.

"Mr. Caulfeild, waz'gonna happen to me if you loose my case?" Did I mention he's not that smart either?

"Well, you'll probably be put on death row, depending on if they decide if it was out of insanity or not. If things don't go well, plead temporary insanity. Maybe you will be spared, but with a therapists. I'd flip a coin. It's a tough choice." I answer back to him in my best 'kiss my royal ass' voice.

"Gee, thanks for the reassurance.'' He snapped back with a similar tone.

"Well it was that or 'You die, bitch'. Take your choice."

This guy kills me, really. He seems like the simple kind, but then he can surprise you with the wittiest remarks you have ever heard. I swear.

I let him read my 'journal'. The one that my therapists made me write about what I did in New York. He seemed kinda appalled at what I had done. The therapist, not the kid. He seemed okay with it. But when he got to the part with that prostitute, he burst out laughing and told me what an idiot I had been not to get with her. It was really embarrassing, but I got over it.

The kid reminded me so much of Ackley, I swear. He had that kind of way where he wouldn't care if you were in the middle of something, you HAD to pay attention to him. He would annoy you until you did, and then he would have something stupid to say. Something completely pointless to say. It killed me. It really did.

We were about to enter the court house, When the kid turned to me and said" You better get me out of this, I swear."

I nodded at him, knowing that this wasn't the time to be making jibes at him. When we went inside, I saw my mother and my sister and her fiancée in the seating area as we made our way up to the defendants table. I look to my right and saw my father looking at me , as if he was trying to get into my head and go over all my tactics as to how I was going to defend the kid.

My father's client reminded me of Stradlater in both looks and manner. Except he had more regard for women than Stradlater. A memory of the night before I left Pencey Prep popped up and I pushed it away, knowing I would have to keep my mind on the court. I looked up as the judge called the court to order. Time to lock and load.

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I won. I won my case against my dad. It kills me, the look on his face after he realized he had lost his case to his son. His insane son who visited the phsycoward every few years, or so. What really killed me was what he said after. He shook my hand and then, he said : Good work, son". Like he was happy he lost. Like he was actually proud of me. Yeah, sure.

I WON!!!!!