Why would you ever want to go home again?

My wrist is starting to hurt from typing so much lately--I don't know what's come over me but in the past 2 weeks or so I've been writing like a mad woman. It comes pouring out and I can't type fast enough so that by the end my fingers feel numb and my right wrist is hurting something horrible. I blame Jim Hondorff for the wrist pain. He's the one who put me in a cast for 6 weeks and according to the orthopedic surgeon "permanently damaged" my wrist rotation. I wonder if he ever thinks about that day. I wonder if he feels badly now for the way he behaved--whether he's grown up some or if he's still the same asshole. I remember that when I finally came back to school after recovering for a week or so he stopped me in the hall and gave me a Mercedes Bendz hood ornament as a way of saying sorry. I still have it in a box I keep in my parents attic.
I got invited to a party at his house the last time I visited my parents and I actually considered going, just to see, just to satisfy some need of facing my fears, facing someone who still haunts me in nightmares. I imagined going to his home, looking him in the eye, making him think about things I'm sure he'd rather deny. In the end I didn't go. Instead I hung out with with the girls, drinking wine and laughing at the way life had changed us.