I’ve lived my whole life in the same house; on the same street; in the same neighborhood; in the same lakeside town. I’ve laughed here; I’ve cried here, but most of all I’ve learned here. Here is where I took my first steps, but it will not be where I take my last.

Growing up in a community with very few people means you know everyone and everyone knows you. Secrets simply just don’t exist. Adventure is only a thing you read about in English class. Everyone marries their high school sweetheart and works at the local grocery store. That’s just the way it is and the way it always will be. People are content, happy with their lot in life. Those who strive for greatness eventually come to their senses and settle down.

So now, as I sit in this car, staring down the all too familiar driveway, I weigh my choices. Soft music flows from the speakers, some love ballad I had heard a million times, played by some local radio station. The same station that every person in this area has set into their stereo presets.

A part within me screams, daring me to drive away and never look back. To let my dust settle in a town with one less citizen. It yells and bangs against my skull, begging me to consider the whole world out there that I had only seen in PBS specials. The mountains, the oceans, those sights that National Geographic would give anything to capture. The people, the culture, the brand new life where I could live free from past reputations and guilt. It pleaded with me, and as tempting it is, it terrifies me.

The other part within me sits quietly, simply watching me struggle with this decision. It doesn’t feel the need to beg or plead. It knows that it’s words have already been imprinted into my brain throughout the past years of my life. Every time someone told me to be content, told me that this was as good as it gets; this part within me grew stronger. It’s main message was that those who try to venture out where they don’t below, fail and wither under the harsh atmosphere of the real world. It’s silence is reinforcing; it judges me. It terrifies me even more.

I’ve never had a choice to make that was this big before. At this point in my life, the most important decision I had had to make was what to wear to homecoming. At that time, that choice seemed like life or death. Now it seems like a small dot on the timeline of my life; something that I won’t even remember in 20 years. This choice, whether to stay or to go, would change the rest of that timeline. The arrow of labeled with my name pointed straight ahead. This choice decided if it continued on that course or took a sharp turn into the unknown.

I sit, staring silently out the dirty, dust covered window. I watch the breeze blow through the quiet neighborhood of my childhood. It seems so small now, far different from the way I saw it as a kid. The trees I used to climb don’t seem as massive anymore. The concrete sideways where I first learned to ride my bike don’t seem like they go on for miles. I suppose that it just something that happens when you grow up. Your surroundings may not change physically, but the way you perceive them certainly does. As you grow larger, everything you know grows smaller.

The pleading part within tells me this is a sign that I need to move on, to expand my world once again. The quiet part within me implies that this is a sign that I need to stay, to stay within the comfort of the only place that I have ever known. The pleading part argues for adventure; the quiet part suggests safety.

The funny thing about personal decisions is all the input that other people want to contribute. It’s most people’s nature to voice their opinions, whether you welcome them or not. They tell you that they only want what’s best for you and what they would do if they were in your shoes, but without a full understanding of your thoughts and feelings, they only stoke the fires of doubt within you. Those fires then grow and before you know it, you are 65 and regretting all the chances you didn’t take when you were young. I don’t want that. I want this decision to be 100% mine, which might be the most difficult part of it all. The idea of disappointing those close to you is enough to make you sick to your stomach. Your parents, most of all, who raised you through the pain and tears, putting your life above their own. Their faces in that moment when you tell them you’re leaving, that feeling of being shattered enters your eyes and seeps down into your heart. In that moment, you lose all sense of being trapped and it is replaced with the unmistakable grief you feel for causing the humans who gave you life to feel this way.

I glance into my backseat, physically empty, but filled to the walls with memories. I remember how it felt to get my first car. Like complete and utter freedom. I remember the friends who sat in these seats, the jokes we laughed at, the stories we told each other. Every stain, every dent had a memory embedded in it. I guess that is the way it was with most things in life. Everything represented something else. But this car, my first big responsibility, represented something much greater. It was my wings, and it had the ability to change my future. Within minutes, it could take me to a whole new town; within hours, a whole new city and within days, a whole new world. That feeling of freedom I had felt the first time I had driven it was now a reality.

The sun has begun to set now, the way it does everyday, in every place in the whole world. I wonder if they are this beautiful out there. Are the colors as vibrant? Does the light dance on the dashboard the same way halfway around the globe? Will looking at them still make me feel so small? You don’t really ever think too deeply about something so constant until you are afraid you're gonna lose it forever.

A difficult decision is like a ten ton weight placed on small, fragile shoulders. The longer it sits there, the weaker they get, the closer to crumbling they become. Eventually, you just have to muster up the strength to lift it; to make a choice and stick with it. At this point that is what I have to do. If I don’t do it now, I’m gonna end up sitting in this car for the rest of my life, wasting my thoughts regretting my inability to control my own future. The two quarreling parts within me have grown quiet, knowing  that the  time has come to see who has won. Everything going on outside of my car seems to slow down, and my breathing quickens. I weigh my feelings carefully. Memories never truly fade, do they? The important ones always stay; I will always carry those ones with me, won’t I?  So why am I worried about leaving the physical representations of them behind? Parents worry but they always want you to be happy, right? How am I ever going to know what the sunsets look like on the other side of the world if I never go see them for myself?

I smile and shift my car into drive.

The Unnamed Pup

It was Late July, the anniversary of our parents. The day they were murdered. Lexi hardly remembers the accident but I remember very clearly it was her fifth birthday. I was there when it all happened. The words of my father tend to come back to me in horrible nightmares.

“Johnny go!” As he placed Lexi into my arms, “Protect her with your life, take the car and drive to Aunt Alexandra’s Farm. You will be safe there. Now go! It’s coming for us! Run!” I ran to the car and strapped Lexi in her seat. I turned the ignition and several loud bangs echoed in the distance as I drove off.

Lexi was fifteen now, Aunt Alexandra had become old and couldn’t support the two of us anymore. I had graduated with a teaching degree and taught Lexi everything I was learning and had learned. Now it was time for us to move on. Lexi and I worked for a company that rebuilds condemned houses. She and I got lucky with this one house we worked on. The two of us had saved up enough money for the standard one bedroom house, it was already furnished and on the outer edge of a little town in Ohio. I was put in charge of the job and I put together the blueprints for the house. On the nights Lexi and I got home early, we would open up the blueprints and debate on what we wanted the house to look like and the results benefited for the both of us.

One night in our brand new house, the rain was hitting the roof like stones skipping across a frozen pond. I woke up in a cold sweat with Lexi staring into my eyes with her hands on my shoulders shaking me awake.

“Johnny! Johnny! Wake up!” Her blue eyes bright with fear, “It was the nightmare again wasn’t it?”

I didn’t respond for awhile, I just stared into her beautiful eyes, for as they reminded me of my mother. Before I spoke, Lexi grabbed my hands and pulled me to a sitting position.

“Johnny, I’m fifteen now and I can handle what happened to our parents. I want to know! I know that’s been keeping you awake at night and I know that’s what you think about when you stare into my eyes. I found a picture of Mom and Dad in your wallet, I have mom’s eyes and you look like Dad.” I came back to my old self when the thunder crashed outside. I told her the whole story and she did exactly what I had expected her to do, she ran to the loft and sat on the leather sectional and cried.

“Lexi, I know it’s hard, I miss them more than anything.” I walked up the spiral staircase and had lain down beside her and she wrapped her arms around me.

“Johnny, I’m sorry…” She sniffled, “I never knew”

“It’s okay, it’s okay, I wish I knew why it happened. It all happened so fast, my only goal was to protect you with my life, nothing more. They died protecting us, and I will die protecting you.”

Days turn into weeks, and weeks turn into months. Next thing I know it’s the middle of October.

“What happened to July,” I ask myself, “where has the summer gone?”

Lexi started to shuffle in the passenger seat. I pulled her blanket up over her shoulders and tucked it around the seat belt. Last night was rough, the heat hasn’t been working lately in the house. Lexi and I slept in the Loft and not even the fireplace could keep us warm. I hardly slept at all.

It’s almost nine in the morning by the time we arrive at our first job in Michigan, we had been driving for about five hours and traffic wasn’t too horrible.

“Lexi, we’re at the job site. It shouldn’t take long, it’s mostly a clean up job.” Placing my hand on her shoulder and unbuckling her with the other.

“Johnny,” she said yawning, “can we go to the restaurant with really, really good waffles after we’re done here?”

“I don’t see why not, we better get started if we wanna make it in time.”

Lexi unloads the tools and I fumble through my keys trying to get the door open, “hey Lex, make sure you grab your gloves, this job is gonna be messy. The people that owned it originally were a bunch of hoarders.”

   “Okie dokie.”

   I open the door and the smell of death lingers, something Lexi and I are used to, it’s sad when we find dead animals in these condemned and abandoned houses, we don’t generally like to talk about it.

   “Alright Lexi, you start cleaning upstairs, the power doesn’t work so watch your step and make sure the batteries are still good in your headlamp. Bring a couple trash bags with you.”

“I’ll start in the master bedroom because it’s the biggest.”

“That’s fine, as long as the job gets done.”

It was very dusty upstairs and a little difficult to see. I opened the blinds, the sunlight was blocked by the early clouds. There was a faint whimpering in the closet but had gone unheard by Lexi who had put her headphones on and had began to work.

Almost an hour goes by.

“Darn! My iPod died. At least I’m finished up here, all I have left are the closets and the bathroom.” I say out loud trying to hold the power button hoping to bring my iPod back to life, “no luck, it’s officially dead.”

I finished the bathroom and heard a scratching sound coming from the master bedroom. I grab the old wooden bat from the wall mount in the hall. When I was about enter the room I was stopped by Johnny who stood at the foot of the steps chuckling at me,

“What are you doing with that bat?”

“There is something in the room.” The scratching grew louder, loud enough for Johnny to notice this time, “I told you so!”

“Okay, maybe you’re right.” He said taking the bat from me and walking into the room.

“I think it’s in the closet.”

He opened the closet door ready to swing and out came a stumbling, small, black, furry creature with bright green eyes, pointy little ears, and a long tail.

“Oh, it’s just a puppy, he looks just like the one we had from when we… Never mind.” Johnny reached down to pet the tiny creature and it bit him! Johnny’s hand started to bleed. “Ouch! Not the friendly type I guess…” In the blink of an eye, the puppy started to grow at a rapid rate.

“Johnny! What… What is that thing?!?!” Lexi screamed terrified of what she had just witnessed.

The eyes of the creature had gone from a beautiful green to a dark and faded red! Johnny tried to smash its head with the bat and it broke in half on impact. The creature attacked, grabbing Johnny with its large claws and taking a large bite out of his neck.

“Lexi run!” Johnny screamed as I stumbled backwards, tripping on a small pile of bones on the floor. I knew those were his final words…

Without hesitation, I took off faster than I had ever ran before, down the stairs and out the door as I heard the brutal screams of my brother. Knowing that this was the last time I was going to see him or hear his voice again. I started the truck and back to Ohio I bolted. “What had I done?” All thanks to me, a bloodthirsty beast had just been released in Michigan, I remember the stories that Johnny had told me of when I had gotten a puppy for my fifth birthday. After all these years, I was convinced by the stories that my poor puppy had been hit by a car before we could even name him. Now I know the truth. Look at what my father has created, a science experiment gone so terribly wrong and nothing could possibly stop it.

My eyes flew open to a shrill screech. The jerking motion of the train lurched to a stop, jolting me up from my seat. The chiming of a bell tower rang not far from the station, signaling the start of noon. Around me, businessmen dressed in trench coats and top hats shuffled out of the car. The warm smell of burnt wood and fresh pastries pervaded through the train’s open windows. With the crinkled job pamphlet clenched in my fist, I couldn’t help but feel the jitters in my stomach upon my arrival. The bright scarlet letters on the pamphlet spurred a wave of spirit in me.

I heaved my bag over my shoulders just as a loud snap released the heavy weight off my back. I sighed as I looked down at the broken strap and the disarray of rotten sandwiches, crumpled yellow paper, and filthy clothes now sprawled across the compartment floor. The sight looked out of place, and I couldn’t help but cringe at the tainted stains covering the floor. I reached down and collected my belongings, murmuring apologies to grumbling passengers squeezing past me. With a heap of miscellaneous garbage in my arms, I trudged out of the train and stepped into the bustling world of Grand Central Station.

A herd of black and brown top hats shuffled about, the buzz of animated life and possibilities churning in the enormous room. The quick rustle of urban life left me planted to the ground, stuck in dumbfound admiration of the light that spilled below the elaborate cornices, the cacophony of trains hailing joyous welcomes and tearful goodbyes, and the clicking of polished heels against newly waxed marble. It was an art in itself, an art that need not a frame to contain but an individual to appreciate. So appreciate I did, standing in awe upon the steps of the platform—until a meaty fellow shoved me by the shoulder. I clutched my belongings close to my chest as I wandered off to find an exit.

However, I was soon swept off course as I tried to peer above the looming heads of rushing businessmen. I searched for a way out only to be dragged down a foreign terminal by the bustling current. The large mass of thickly packed trench coats covered my view as a myriad of colored ties passed by. I felt a snag in my chest as panic rose. I struggled for an escape. Gripping my belongings tight, I tried to shove my way past the tall bodies, only to get thrown back into the crowd. My breath hitched in my throat. Submerged and a completely frenzied mess, I was helpless to the onslaught of the urban hurricane.

Then, an arm yanked me out of the sea of people. I stumbled towards a wall bordering the crowd. The contents I carried flew out of my arms onto a heap of ragged blankets and garbage by the side of the terminal. It was then when I realized that a row of haggard bums and unkempt mattresses lined the wall, a sight hidden behind the light of wafty pastries, ticket booths, and information centers. And by my side stood a man whose cheeks were hollowed from the crevice of age, whose hair was matted in patches of dirt, and whose beard was tainted with the color of crumbling stone. What I saw but could not see were his eyes: a hazy bleak mist, the clouds of a silent storm, twin ghosts encased behind each cornea. With his bony fingers digging into my skin, the man’s whites bore into me.  Something about his expression told me that he wasn’t some ordinary beggar. A shiver ran down my spine. I flinched back a few steps, but his iron grasp keeps me grounded beside him.

“Sir,” I said. “Please. I have no money.”

The whites didn’t quiver. Staring me down with the rage of a hurricane, the man refused to let go of me.

“Sir,” I tried once more, my voice shaking. “What is it you want?”

His lips tightened. The man hunched over a pile of rags, rummaging through the mess. I peered over just as the man pulled out an envelope amongst the debris. In stark contrast to the pile, the envelope was surprisingly in pristine condition. Its bright white color looked odd in the man’s junkhouse—not a smudge of dirt or a single crease. The words PLEASE HELP was written in large cursive letters.

The man lets go of my arm, shot an intimidating glare, and pressed the envelope into my hand. I stared at the envelope for a moment and looked back at the man. The man’s eyes never left me. I fidgeted under his cold stare and I looked up at the giant clock over the bell tower. It was a little past noon. I needed to get to the address on the pamphlet on time. Yet the letters on the envelope and this peculiar man captivated a part of me that wanted to know more. I hesitated for a moment before I tore open the envelope. Inside, in graceless penmanship, was a letter.

I glanced back at the man. A sense of dread swept over me and I slumped in woe. As if sensing my distress, his bitter features wore down as he moved his hands down my arm and felt for the letter in my hands. The man shook my forearm and dabbed at the paper.

“Read,” the man demanded.

I turned back to the clumsy lettering on the paper. Some of the fresh ink bled through the letter, morbidly staining the tips of my fingers.

I hesitated, “No.”

The man’s brows furrowed, and he shook my arm. “Read,” he tried once more. “What does it say?”

His eyes grew soft with worry. The stern glare was replaced with a forlorn gaze that clung to his placid white eyes. Panic was written all over him, and his hollowed cheeks caved deeper into his frail skull. The man gave me a desperate look, wishing that through my eyes he could understand the words on the letter. But he could not. I could not take it any longer. Taking a deep breath, I gave in.

Dear kind stranger,

Thank you for your time and kindness when reading this letter. This man here has lost his sight in a terrible accident years ago and needs care. I have been in his aid for years, and now I find it time to part with him. I would sincerely appreciate it if you relay these words to him:

Father. This is Daisy, your daughter, your caretaker, your love. I am truly sorry to put you in this position and it was not what I would have hoped for us, but ever since we set foot on the Land of the Free, I have wanted nothing more than to be free. You have been nothing but a burden on me ever since we became the only two to survive the war. You are a man who needs attention and lots of it, so much that I believe I can never give you enough. You’ve meant the world to me, but now I mean nothing to the world. I see that now. I see now that there is more to my existence than being your maid and your caretaker, for there are far better things to do and to achieve in a woman’s life. I am of fruitful youth, of grandiose radiance, and of pompous attitude. It is time I live to care for myself, not for you. It is my time to become new again— to find my Genesis. I want to explore the world and myself, so although I want to say that it pains me to leave you here, I can not, for I know that this is what I want and this is what is best for me. I hope you can understand.

Best Wishes,

Daisy Jenkins

There was a pause.

I peered at the small hunched figure before me. Tears streamed down his sullen face. The man collapsed into his pile of rags, his jaw hanging open from the shock. He had the face of a broken man—a man who lost all direction. The rigid intensity he confronted me with had faded into the sunken silhouette of a man who lost what little he had to lose. It didn’t feel appropriate to witness such a vulnerable moment, yet I could not bear to leave the man in this state. So I handed him the letter to hold and loomed over the thin apparition of the man who lost direction in a consoling exchange of silence.

He was a painter, the man told me. Back when he had his sight, the man would take the colors of the world and shape them into wonders with the tip of his brush. He would spend hours every day imitating the world he saw to perfection. There was nothing more worth doing than his work, and I could feel his passion from the sweet taste of his words as he spoke of his art. Then the war came. The man’s wife died in a nearby explosion, and the tear gas left him blind, leaving a 15-year-old daughter in his care. It was hardly a year before they pinched enough pennies to immigrate to America. But what use was it, he whimpered. What was the use of a second chance if his own daughter wasn’t going to give him one.

I stored his confidence close to my heart. Sitting beside him on the heap of rags, I saw the broken man through his broken eyes, clenching and unclenching the bleeding letter. I stared down at the pamphlet in my hand. No longer could I look at the enthusiastic letters on the pamphlet with the same excitement. Something in me was lost to the foul words of Daisy Jenkins and left me with a doubt that there was something more to me than a job in the city—something born of individual passion rather than greedy ambition. I boarded the train this morning thinking of all the wealth I could attain in New York City, yet as I stared at the piles of crumpled yellow paper I had thrown onto the pile of rags, I couldn’t help but feel a tug in my heart. The appeal of luxurious wealth dimmed as I was reminded of my youthful pastimes.

I crumpled the pamphlet in my hand and threw it away. I gathered my stained, yellow papers as the man turned to face me in sluggish interest.

“Sir,” I started. “I understand that your daughter wanted a fresh start and in her act of self-discovery, you have been made a victim. But simply because you have lost the ability to see, doesn’t mean you lost your ability to paint. Maybe you can paint the things you see… from your mind.”

The man regarded me as he would a dancing cow.

“What?” He said.

“Trust me on this,” I replied.

I took the first page of my notes and began to read them aloud to the man. For the first time, I was sharing a story I had spent so much of my life hiding. In my search for wealth, my love for literature, for weaving words into worlds, for conjuring stories of vast lands has been dutifully stored away. Yet here I was, sharing the art of my mind to a broken man.

I spoke to him of a land where water could speak and trees could sing. I spoke to him of people who danced to the songs of birds. I spoke to him of the dreamy blue sky and the acres of honey yellow fields. I spoke to him of the children who touched the moon and the stars in their dreams. With my words, I weaved stories of magic, of love, of death, and of wonder. Adventures across vast seas and royal fantasies poured from the words I had crafted onto the paper.

And so I spoke to the broken man, “My stories are painted from people’s motion in places and times, their actions and reactions, their thoughts and confessions. I write with my mind, not my pen. You have painted with your eyes for a long enough time. Maybe it is time for your Genesis, too. Maybe it is time for you to paint with your mind.”

The man slowly raised his head towards me.

“Paint with my mind?” he asked.

“Paint my stories,” I suggested. “Think and paint of wonder. Paint your emotions. Paint a lover’s feelings. Paint the moon and the stars and the large vast ocean. The hues of blue. The specks of white against the black canvas. Paint, sir. Paint.”

I could feel the man’s breath quicken as he looked up at me with joy.

“I can see it! I can see it!” the man cried out loud.

I gave him a smile, a wave of warmth rolling over me.

“Your delight relieves me, Sir. I am proud.”

And it was in that moment when I knew that I wanted this. I wanted to share my stories and let people paint them with all the colors of their mind. I wanted to see that look of joy on the faces of all the blind beings in this cruel, cruel world. I had come off the train looking for wealth. Now, I walked out looking for wonder.

Summer, 2008. In Minny’s front yard, her the tree was lush with bright, emerald colored leaves. Ants ran up and down the trunk, in a hurry as though they had somewhere important to be.

School had just gotten out half an hour ago, and Minny had graduated the eighth grade. She and her friend Cecile sat in the tree’s branches, where they always hung out, their backpacks and bikes in a haphazardly formed pile underneath it. Minny pulled her hair into a ponytail, the black rubber snapping on her fingers. It was far too warm to have hair on her neck.

“What do you think, could I hang off of here with just my legs?” Cecile asked. Her eyes sparkled with the idea of a challenge.

“Yeah, I bet you could.” Minny looked down, trying to guess how much damage would be done by a six foot head-first drop. “Be careful, though.”

“Count how long I can do it,” Cecile said, and pitched backwards, squeezing the branch under her knees. Once Minny had reached 15, Cecile started to grab back at the branch with her hand.

“Let me help you,” Minny laughed, taking Cecile’s hand and trying to pull her up. But, Cecile’s weight overwhelmed her. A surprised scream slipped past Minny’s lips as the pair fell out of the tree, and they hit the ground with a jarring impact. Minny got up, dusting the dirt off of her black leggings.

Cecile remained on the ground, giving a loud groan. “My leg… There’s something wrong with my leg...” Her face scrunched up in pain.
Minny’s eyes widened. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry! Are you bleeding?” Minny crouched down, and tried to see if there was any visible damage.

Cecile jumped up with a war cry, and Minny fell back, startled. “I got you! You should’ve seen your face!” She snorted with laughter.

“That wasn’t funny!” Minny said, but she was smiling all the same. “Really though, you’re okay?”

“You don’t need to worry so much.” Cecile stared back up at the tree. “This time, I’m going to jump out of it, and we’re going to see if I can land on my feet.” Minny rolled her eyes, amused. Only Cecile would want to go right back up there again.

~

Fall, 2008. Leaves cascaded down from her tree. They were shades of gold and red, reminding Minny of the gryffindor themed scarf she had in her bedroom. She wished she were wearing it; it was somewhat chilly. The first frost had happened a few days prior, and everything was slightly crunchy under her feet as she walked to school.

She greeted her neighbor’s son as she passed him. He was only four, and his round cheeks were flushed red. He smiled at her brightly from underneath a slightly too large green hat. His mother waved at her from the kitchen window, a steaming mug in her hands.

Minny’s backpack was heavy on her shoulders, and she slipped her fingers under the straps to try to offset the weight. She was carrying her math textbook today, because she wanted to get to school early and study for her test. I probably should’ve studied on Wednesday, she chided herself, but she was well aware that she would just pull the same procrastination for the next unit’s test. She shrugged. It had worked thus far.

Her phone emitted a small ding noise, and she set down her backpack to retrieve the phone from her front pocket. She took a moment to push her shoulders back, her bones satisfyingly cracking. Her friend had texted her, he wanted to meet at the school store before class started. So much for studying. How absolutely tragic, she thought, the hint of a smile on her lips.  

~

Winter, 2008. Her father was stringing up ice blue lights on her now barren tree. The tip of Minny’s nose was freezing, and her fingers were starting to get stiff in her coat pocket. She was tempted to go inside, but part of her relished the sting of the cold on her skin. Just a few more minutes. “Next year we should get multicolored lights,” she mused, imagining how fun the tree would look. “Like, Christmas colors or something.”

Her father stepped back from the tree, picturing it. “That could be interesting.” He chuckled. “Your mother is rather attached to these ones, though. We used them at our wedding.”
Minny’s face lit up. She loved hearing stories about her parents before she was born. “It was an outdoor wedding, then? Was it winter?”

“It was. It was freezing, and your mother’s dress was covered in fur, and she looked like an angel.” Her father finished the last light, and plugged them into the extension cord. The lights flickered before turning all the way on, shining brightly in the night. “These lights are older than you, you know.”

She giggled, and pulled her polaroid camera out of her jacket pocket. “Move, please. I need to take a picture.” She looked through the viewfinder, trying to fit in as much of the tree as possible. Click! The picture slid out of the slot.

“It’s not the best picture I’ve ever seen,” Her father joked, pointing to the currently all gray image. Minny rolled her eyes. “Besides, I put up all these lights, and I don’t even get to be in the picture?”

She pulled her phone out of her other pocket, and swiped up into the camera app, flipping it into front facing mode. Her father put his arm around her shoulder, and they smiled into the camera. The lights shined like stars behind them.

~

Spring, 2009. Minny was biking home from Cecile’s house. The color of the sky matched her grey eyeshadow, and raindrops drizzled over her skin. Piles of dirty snow were gradually melting, and water trickled down the street underneath her tires.

She stopped for a moment as she approached the tree, its damp leaves dripping water onto her. She frowned, she noticed that a ring of tulips were planted around its trunk. She detested them, they were too yellow, and they looked childish, and she just wanted to tear them up from the ground.

But she did not. She just grazed the tree lightly with her fingers, and got back on her bike. She biked two blocks down and one to the right to her new apartment building, where she shared her yard with six other families, and there was nothing but unkempt shrubbery in it.

No Name

  “Three-zero-six,” my teacher called out, making me snap out of my thoughts. The kids all turned to see me, sitting in the back of the classroom holding a book. All the kids had names, except for me. I was a No Name, a kid whose parents couldn’t afford to buy a name.

Your name is a distinct mark of your social class, and status. There is the Bright Name class, whose parents can name their child whatever they want. Then there is the Name class, where parents can name their children simple names, like John or Jill. Then there is the No Name class; the poorest of people have that title. In place of their names, they are given numbers, my numbers being three-zero-six.

   “Yes?” I asked shyly, my head low. I wasn’t supposed to look at the other kids; they were all in the Bright Name class, the richest, most elite group of people.

The teacher had made it her solemn duty that I never graduate high school. The teacher’s cold, green eyes met mine, making me cower like a little child. I wanted to go home and curl up in a little ball. Those green eyes had haunted me for many years. I pushed a strand of my long, dirty blonde hair behind my ear. I fixed my glasses over my bright green eyes. My pale skin got goosebumps from the long minutes of silence. She finally cleared her throat to speak. And then… the bell rang. I couldn’t have run out of that class any faster. I kept my head down low making sure not to look at anybody, but also not to bump into anyone.

   As I was leaving the school, a boy about two years younger than me put his foot forward, making me trip, which knocked over his books. I knew it was on purpose to make it seem like I was harassing him. A teacher, who just happened to be nearby, came over. The boy put on his best-acting face to seem like he was mad at me, but there was a glint in his eyes that couldn’t hide the smile of me getting in trouble. It wasn’t just the one teacher who wanted me to not graduate. It was the whole entire school.

   “Look what this filthy No Name did,” the boy declared as I still laid on the floor. I scowled at him.

   “Listen, he tripped me on purpose!” I objected. The teacher gave me a look that made me want to disappear.

   “I don’t want to hear any lies!” the teacher yelled making everyone in the hallway turn towards me.

   “But…” I objected.

   “No buts! Apologize to this young gentleman. Then pick up his books, and march yourself home! If this ever happens again you will lose your scholarship!” The teacher scowled. I apologized as I picked up his books, mumbling, and grumbling, and then ran home as fast as I could. I couldn’t lose my scholarship, not now. The only reason I was able to go to this school is that I got a scholarship. If I graduated, I would become a part of the Bright Name class and get my name back.     

“Four-two-nine!” I called out as soon as I opened the metal door into the small house. Besides the metal door, the rest of the house was made out of wood. Rotting, mold-infested wood. Four-two-nine came out, a solemn look on her face. She looked sad as she often did. Five hundred years ago, Four-two-nine would be called “Mom.” But not now. She had dark brown hair that was cut above her shoulders, and she had blue eyes and tan skin. I looked nothing like four-two-nine because the No Names aren’t allowed to have children. The only way No Names can have a child is if the Bright Names don’t want their child. I came to four-two-nine when I was ten years old, a little later than other children have come to the No Names. I clearly remember that cold summer day when my mom came home from her long day of teaching.

                                                                                                                                              *    *    *

 I had suspected it for a long time. Yes, my mom was getting rid of me. Though I was the top of my class, and I was two years above everyone else in school, my mom was still getting rid of me. I crept into her study; she usually locked it, but not today. My mom was a teacher at a Bright Names high school, one I hoped that I would get into. I had never seen her office before; it had grey walls and a marble floor. I quickly went to her desk, creeping quietly. My mom had ears like a hawk- she could hear everything. I knew I only had a couple of minutes before she would find me. I went to her oak desk. There were many papers on her desk that made me think I would never find it. Then I saw it, in bright red letters on a paper that was right on the top. It read: Disown Your Child.

   The door slammed open as my mother stormed into the room. I quickly grabbed the paper with bright red letters on it, tears in my eyes. I had suspected this, yes, but deep down in my heart, I had hoped that this was wrong.

   “Give me that!” my mother shouted angrily.

   “No!” I said anger festering and bubbling inside of me. My anger consumed me as I tore up the paper right in front of her. “How could you get rid of me? I’m your daughter!” Tears threatened to fall, but I stood my ground refusing to move.

My mom’s next words were words I would never forget. “I don’t have a daughter.”

The next hour was a blur. My mom grabbed my arm, her long nails digging into my skin. She dragged me all the way downstairs, out of the marble house and into her hovercar. She threw me into the backseat and quickly locked the hovercar door. Then she shot up into the air. There was no escape. Soon we were hovering above the ground where there was dirt and mold everywhere. In place of grass, there was garbage, all the garbage that the Bright Names didn’t want. All the houses were made out of old rotten wood. Some had metal doors, some had copper doors. The smell made me want to throw up. My mind couldn’t comprehend the fact that I would be living here.

“I have to escape!” I thought desperately. We stopped in front of an old house with one story. It was about the size of my bedroom. Then a lady in her mid-thirties came out, soot and dirt on her face.

“Mom you can’t be serious!” I protested furiously. All she did was unlock the hovercar.

“Get out!” were her final words to me. Tears still stained my eyes as I opened and slammed the hovercar door behind me. The hovercar sped away as it shot up into the air, leaving me alone in the darkness. The lady offered her hand but I shook it off. I hated it here. I hated the smell, I hated the houses, I hated everything. The only thing I wanted was my mom back.

Maybe I can run away! I thought anxiously, scanning my surroundings for somewhere to run. The lady then took my arm forcefully and put a microchip on it. The microchip slowly dissolved into my arm. It was hot, very hot. I felt like it was melting my arm off. Then, the pain slowly disappeared, leaving my arm a bright crimson. Suddenly, I didn’t hate this place anymore. I didn’t hate the smell, I didn’t hate the houses. It was home now. This was my new home.

“Three-zero-six,” the lady said.

“Yes,” I said. Yes, that was my new name: Three-zero-six.

“What is my name?” the lady inquired.

“Four-two-nine,” I replied. It was like I was now a robot. A robot who couldn’t control what she said or thought. Maybe there was still some part of me left. Yes, the part of me that still wanted my name back.

My beautiful name had been replaced by a number. A sickening number.

                                                                                                                                                *   *   *

   Graduation day came slowly. It seemed like, every day until then I was just an empty shell waiting to get my beloved name back. The minutes turned into hours, and the hours turned into days. I sat in my English class waiting for the bell to ring, signaling that the next day was my graduation day. I was about ready to spring out of my seat when the bell rang. All the kids rushed out bumping and pushing me. Then my teacher stopped me dead in my tracks.     

“May I speak with you?” she asked her voice icy cold.

“Four-two-nine is waiting for me at home,” I said emphasizing the word home. “I have to go.”

Bye, mom, I thought in my head as I left the teacher. Then, realizing what I had just thought, I angrily pushed the thought aside. She wasn’t my mother; she was just the woman who abandoned me.

 The narrow alleyway was only lit by a single street light. Listening to the gentle sound of my footsteps comforted me in a way that made everything seem peaceful. I listened to that for a while, letting my thoughts wander.

Then suddenly, out of nowhere, there came three girls. One, whom I assumed was the leader, stepped towards me. She had bright blue eyes and red hair that ended on her shoulders. She wore an expensive looking white jacket. I had seen her before in the school, though she never talked to me.

   “My name is Teresa. This is Janet”- she pointed to the girl on the right - “and this is Jane”- she pointed to the other girl. “What’s your name?” she asked in a condescending tone.

“Three-zero-six,” I tried to sound brave and proud of my name but my voice cracked, and quivered. The girls could sense my fear; they had a murderous look in their eyes. I knew I needed a way to escape, so I turned around, but much to my dismay there were three more girls behind me. I had fallen into a trap.

I tried to walk past Teresa, but she just shoved me so hard I hit the brick wall. My head slammed into it making everything spin. “Let’s just get it over with,” Teresa said. “The cops will never catch us.” Darkness began to close in on me. The only thing I could see was a faint silhouette of the girls.

Maybe the gunshot I heard was just a dream, but all I know is that after that gunshot, I would never wake up again. Somewhere deep down inside me I knew it was never my destiny to graduate and get my name, my beloved name back.

   I have no regrets. I wish I did, but everything in my life just didn’t even seem like it was worth any regrets. Dying in high school never crossed my mind, but there I was surrounded, by doctors who didn’t care if I lived or died; they would never arrest those girls for killing me. As I slipped in and out of consciousness, I couldn’t help but wonder if my mom was there. Not Four-two-nine, but my real mom. I wondered if she even cared about what happened to me. Memories flashed through my mind as death approached; happy ones, and sad ones. They say you see a white light when you die, but all I saw was my mom and myself, smiling and laughing. Though I wished with all my might that this was a reality, I knew it was just a sickening dream.

Yes, I guess I had one regret from it all. My final last regret was I never had the courage to ask my mom, Why? Why couldn’t we be a family?

The last words I ever heard were, “I’m so sorry, Caroline.” I took Death’s hand and walked into an unknown abyss.

I am Thomas Nelson, you’re average teenage boy.  Until a magical fairy came through a magic cloth.  It all started at my birthday when I opened the dreaded gift from Aunt Bertha, expecting to find the usual useless gift. I pulled out a glowing ball of material I’ve never seen before. I inspect it for a moment and then tucked it away in a corner. That night, as I was drifting off to sleep, I hear a faint whirring sound coming from the corner of my bedroom.  Suddenly, I jumped out of bed!  I looked at the ball of material.  Suddenly, the ball started to glow and shimmer.  It turned a deep shade of crimson.  It starting to unwrap and suddenly turned into a deep crimson oval, levitating over my pet cat, Mouse.  Then suddenly the surface turned a misty blue, suddenly something fell out, it was curled up in a ball with long hair.  It unraveled itself…  It was a beautiful girl!  She was seventeen, about my age.  She stood up, she had long beautiful blond hair pulled back in a tight braid, she had blue eyes and…wings?  She said I...I...I’m Belle.  I’m a fairy.  Where am I?  I said “where did you come from?”  She said “A magical fairy world called Cornucopia.  A magic piece of cloth pulled me in.  Now, I’m here!”  She took me by the hand, pulled me into the corner and whispered, “I have to get back to Cornucopia.  I don’t think if I jump back into that cloth I’ll just be where I got in.  I’ve heard of these before they are called landels, if a landel sucks you in, that means it’s for a purpose.  Most of the time that purpose is to meet a person.  Suddenly, we locked eyes my deep brown eyes locked with her light blue eyes.  We stood, not breaking away for seconds.  She broke it and said “Let’s get going”  before I could protest.  She pulled me through the portal, we popped out in a land where the trees were lollipops, and the bushes were jolly ranchers.  I turned around to look at her but… my jaw dropped.  Belles hair was pulled back in a gorgeous bun and she was wearing a dress, the most beautiful I’ve ever seen, It was gray and snowflake like at the top, but then it came down in white ruffles.  She looked at me and said “Well,well well, quite the attire you have.  I just then realised I was wearing a tuxedo and my thick brown hair was pulled back.  I said, “You look amazing!”  She said “You too!”  I couldn’t help thinking of how worried my mom would be when she realized I wasn't in bed.  I said “Belle, what will happen when my mom finds my bed empty?”  She said “Time passes different here than in your world.  We are in the land of Cornel which has many lands in it.  Cornucopia, Hunter’s Woods, Island of the animals, and Candy Land, where we are, are in Cornel.  Cornucopia is on the far east of Cornel, where we are on the far west of Cornel.  We traveled through Candy Land with not much problem.  We reached the border of Hunter’s Forest, it had dark, dead trees, and a rusted, ugly, broken gate with two hunters in dark cloaks on either side.  Belle whispered something so quietly I couldn't hear and they let us threw.  Every step through the forest it felt like something was watching us.  Right when I thought we were safe, a panther  jumped in front of Belle, I, out of bravery,  jumped in front of her.  The panthers sharp thicks claws cut through my flesh.  Belle said “Are you ok?” I worriedly said “I’m alright”  But I wasn’t.  I then fell to floor!  The last thing I heard were Belle’s cries of help and her tears of sadness.  At that moment, I knew we would be best friends.  Then, everything went black.  When I woke up, I was sitting in a hammock.  Belle turned around and said, You’re alive!  She then hugged me, I said “I would hug you back if my arm could move!”  With laughter in my voice.  She said “What is your name?”  “Thomas”  Then I realized it was hard to move in this tuxedo.  She said “We will magically change outfits once we get deeper in the forest”  Her word stayed true, she wore a pine green ball gown, and her hair was curled.  I was in camo pants and a black shirt.  We reached Island of the Animals.  She said “This is the last but hardest land to get through”  Before I could ask why, she pushed me in.  She said there are things called sirens, they show you someone you love, and they lure you in.  Then they eat you.  We walked for a while in the mist.  Then Belle ran off, I was screaming her name but I couldn’t see her.  I decided it was best to go after her.  But then I heard her!  I ran after her voice she was saying “Thomas, come on!”  In a sweet tone, then I found her, beautiful as ever.  I walked to her, almost in a trance.  Then she turned into a monster, I had done just what Belle said not to!  Fall into the siren’s lure.  The thick long, sharp claws of the siren reached out to get me, but then, a girl in camo, like mine, came and chopped the sirens hand off!  I said, who are you?  She said “I’m Caroline, I saw your friend Belle”  “Where is she?”  I asked “She is dead”  I burst out in tears.  I said to no one in particular “Why, I loved her and now she’s gone”  I sat there, sobbing for hours.  Caroline finally said “We should get you back to where you belong”  But I said “No, I will complete the mission I have been given!”  “Ok, suit yourself, but I will go with you for safety protection”  I couldn’t help thinking of how mad I was that Belle had died.  We finally got to Cornucopia.  I didn’t know what to do.  I saw a man that looked a lot like Belle.  I said “Do you know a girl named Belle?”  “Yup, she’s my little sister!”  “Where is your house?”  “Right behind me”  “Thank you for your help!”  I said to Caroline, “I’ll go tell their family”  “Take off your cloak for me”  “Down at the river bank”  she said.  We walked to the river and she hugged me and whispered “I missed you”  I said “Caroline, you don’t go hug a man who loves someone else.  She is dead” but Before I could finish my sentence she said “But she’s not”  She took off her cloak and it was the beautiful Belle I loved.  She said “I pretended to be someone else because I loved you, but I didn’t know if you returned that love.  “But I do”  “I now know the portal sucked me in to meet you.”  Later in life, we went back and told my parents what had happened as well as hers.  We got married and lived Happily ever after.

THE END

I lived in a neighborhood that gave me comfort, courage, and love. Surrounded by the mountains and rivers, I could reside here for a very long time. I spent my whole life growing potatoes.  When I was young, I often thought about how I would be in my mid-age. I thought I would have a beautiful house, a gorgeous wife, about two kids, and may be enough money to afford luxuries without pain. As I grew older, these dreams have become true. I felt like a blessed old man without any problems in life until I was diagnosed with schizophrenia. With this disorder, I couldn’t even recognize my relatives or friends. Don't ask me how I wasn't able to recognize them. I am busy fighting the tree monster out the window.

When I turned 73 years old, my children decided to put me in a mental hospital. I didn’t want to go, but I knew I had to for the family. I spent many years in the mental institution and my family eventually stopped coming to see me.

When I arrived at the big white building, I don't have much memory because I was soon anesthetized. I am so going to get that nurse who stabbed me with a huge needle. It was more painful than the sensation of falling off an apartment. While I was anesthetized, two male nurses just put me on a stretcher, covered my head, and tied my hands and legs with cotton chains. I could still hear the quietness. The nurse stabbed me with a needle again. I don’t remember what happened. I tried so hard but I couldn't. When I opened my eyes, what I saw were human bodies lying down on the ground.  I could not move. The people on the ground started moving, and they were coming to me. At that moment, I passed out because they had no faces and their fingers were making the number 25. When I finally woke up, it was the next day or perhaps was a week later.  I felt a sense of relief because I felt something. I felt lonely.

In this hospital, I couldn’t do anything but just stare at the wall. I thought I would just turn into a piggy bank if I stay in this horrible place any longer. It has been three years since I am here. My family stopped coming here; wait did I say that already?

Through these three years, I became obsessed with the number 25 because of so many things that happened to me was related to the number. The illusion of faceless man with the number 25, my birthday is on the 25th; I came to this place on November 25th, my favorite basketball player had the back number of 25. While I was thinking of this number, I started wondering about the convenience store named GS25. I wanted to go there so bad just because of the number 25.

I wanted to get out of this place real bad that I decided to make myself an escape plan. When my plan was completed, I executed as planned. I had a designated watchman who kept an eye on me all the time. Four days before I planned to escape the hospital, I went to the bathroom very often. I threw myself on the ground powerlessly. The watchman didn’t realize that this was just an act and put me on a stretcher and took me somewhere else. I woke up that night, and I realized I was not in the hospital. I slowly got out the bed and crawled through the way to the exit. I got to the exit and I thought that I finally escaped the mental hospital. However, the door was locked. I knew where they usually put the key in, so I quickly went to get the key and I escaped the hospital. My memories are fragmented but that how I remember escaping the prison. I ran away as far as I could, and I slept with a garbage bag as my blanket.

The next day, I started to see the number 25 all over the place. As I chased the number 25, it ran away from me. I didn’t give up reaching the number so, I kept running. Finally, the number stopped at a convenience store, GS25, the place I was searching for. I went into the store with excitement. The employee stared at me with a vague look. I didn’t know I had such a squalid clothing on. I started to examine the items in the convenience store carefully one by one. When I looked at the pasta box, pasta came out of the box and started talking to me. The pasta shouted out loud,” Welcome to GS25!” I replied,”Thank you!” As I walked around the store, all the things in the store started to follow me; Lays, Cheetos, Doritos, welch’s and so on. They are talked to me at the same time; I couldn't decipher their wordings for God sakes. The snacks asked me,” Could you take us with you? We have been here forever. No one seems to like us.” I walked up to the cashier and told her to free these poor snacks from the convenience prison names GS25. I asked her if I could take those snacks with me. The employee said, "Are you crazy or is this a prank? If you are not buying anything, please get out.” I took the snacks and went out of the store without payment. Next thing I know, I was chased by a couple of law enforcement officers. started chasing me and the chase went on and on. When I was about to get caught, I woke up ready for school. I realized that my creative writing project is due today, and I feel like I know what to make up in my school bus.

                                                  I remember when I was younger we would go to the park, just my parents and I.  We would pack sandwiches (ham salad for my dad, turkey and cheese for my mom, and PB&J for me) and chips.  We would lay out the old, worn out, baby blue picnic blanket next to the pond and watch the ducks.  I remember the way my mother smiled and laughed as my father and I flew our dragon shaped kite.  But that was years ago.  Things are different now.  My father’s eyes don’t sparkle with laughter and love anymore.

           Everything started going downhill three years ago when my grandmother died.  I was ten.  I came home from school and bounced off the rumbling bus.  I remember being excited because I aced my science test.  I ran inside to find my mom sitting at the kitchen table, her head in her hands.  My father sat next to her, his head bowed.

           I dropped my lunchbox and ran over.  My father looked up.  He walked over to me, slowly, dragging his feet.

           “Honey,” he said “Your mother isn’t feeling well. You see…” he glanced at my mom.  She raised her head.  Her face was puffy and red, as though she had been crying.  She walked over, unsteadily.

           “Sweetie,” she croaked, her voice raw “your grandmother, well, she died this afternoon.”  Tears slid down her face.

           I was shocked.  It felt as if someone had slapped me.  My Grammy couldn’t be dead.  It was impossible.  This wasn’t happening.

           A strangled sob came from somewhere.  My mother hugged me tightly, and my father patted my back.  It wasn’t until I felt the salty tears sting my cheeks that I realized it came from me.

           I remember Grammy’s funeral was the worst.  Everyone said what a wonderful life she had, and how we should celebrate that.  But it was still horrible, and heart-breaking.  She was gone forever.

           Over the next few years, we began to drift apart.  My mother became quiet, and secluded, my father, distanced and worried.  By the time I was thirteen, I was used to coming home, making my own dinner, doing my homework, and putting myself to bed, only stopping to say goodnight to my parents.

           But one day, it changed.  I unlocked the door, threw my backpack on the couch and popped a TV dinner in the microwave.  I was just settling down to fresh-out-of-the-box- Mac n’ cheese and attempt my algebra homework when there was a knock on the door.  I opened it up, and there stood a cop in his crisp, clean blue uniform.

           “Can I help you?” I asked.  He cleared his throat.

           “Is this the Bridger residence?” he rumbled.

           “Yes, come inside” I beckoned and led him to the couch.  “I’m Jessica Bridger.”

           “Pleased to meet you,” he looked uncomfortable.  “Listen, Jessica.  I work up at the station, and they sent me to tell you that…”  He took a deep breath. “Well, Jessica.  Your mom… She’s dead.  She killed herself this afternoon.”

            I froze.  It felt as if my stomach had dropped to my toes.   My insides went cold with the feeling of dread you get when you know something is wrong.  Horribly wrong.  I felt sick.

           The officer shifted uncomfortably and said, “Look, kid, I’m really sorry, is there anything-“

           “I need to call my dad” I interrupted.  I felt like a robot like my brain had been turned to autopilot.

           The next few hours rushed by in a blur.  I called my dad, he came home, the cop gave us a bunch of paperwork to fill out, and my dad had to identify the body.  I can’t imagine how hard it was for him.  They said she overdosed on prescription drugs.  I felt as if my world was a bathtub and someone just yanked the plug.  Everything was draining away.

           When everyone left, I retreated to my room but didn’t bother to trade the door.  On my pillow was a sheet of paper.  I picked it up.  My hands shook as I unfolded the neat corners.  It read

           “To my lovely daughter,

                       I will never be able to put into words how much I love you, and your father.  What I have done is selfish, and cruel.  I apologize for all the pain I cause you.  I was weak.  I couldn’t deal with the loss of my mother.  I feel terrible leaving you, and forcing you to deal with what I did.  But I would never have been the same.  You and your father are much stronger than I am.  You’re a fighter.  I know you’ll get through.  I believe in you.  If you can ever find it in your heart to forgive me, please do.  I love you.

           Love always,

           Mom.”

           I stood frozen to the floor.  I let the tears slide down my face, not bothering to wipe them.  And suddenly the reality hit me.   I would never see my mother again.  Never hear her laugh, never see the way the edges of her eyes crinkled when she smiled, never inhale the way she smelled- like clean wood- never again.  And now I was crying in earnest, great heaving sobs, rivers streaming from my eyes.

           The paper fell from my numb hands.  I was suddenly engulfed in my father’s strong arms.  I buried my head in his shoulder and cried my heart out.  He cried with me, and we stood there for hours, simply holding each other and crying.

           He finally pulled away and looked at me.  His face was blotchy from crying.  He cleared his throat.

           “Well kiddo” he began.  He hadn’t called me kiddo in years.  “It’s just you and me now.  We’ve gotta get through this together.  I love you.”

           “I love you too, dad,” I whispered my voice hoarse. As he began to leave, I said “Dad?”

           “Hmm?”

           “Can… can I sleep with you tonight?” I blushed.

           “Of course, Jess”

           I hadn’t slept with in my parents’ bed since I was about five.  When I woke, I heard the unmistakable sound of rain pounding on the room, clinking against the window, dripping from the gutter.  My dad had already got up.  I lay in bed for a while, just thinking, wishing my mom was here.  Every time I thought about her, I felt hollow inside, like a shell of my former self.  I had to get up, had to do something, anything to keep my mind occupied, my hands busy.

           I dragged myself out of the cozy, warm bed and slipped on my raggedy old lavender slippers.  Shuffling over to the fridge, although I wasn’t hungry, I spotted a slip of paper on the table.  I picked it up and began to read

           “Jess

                       Sorry I had to leave so early.  Had to deal with something that came up at work.” – I knew he was lying to protect me.  He was dealing with something to do with mom. - “I’ll be back around ten.

           Love,

           Dad.”

           I put down the note, feeling empty.  Glancing at the clock, I saw that I had about an hour to burn.  Suddenly I felt anger.  Anger at my mother, for putting us through this, for not coping with her mother’s death, so leaving me to deal with hers.  For leaving me.  For leaving my dad.  For everything.  The hot tears fell once again down my cheeks, stinging as they fell.  I was so angry, so angry.  I let out a yell of anguish and threw my fist at the table.  I didn’t care about the bruise it left.

           I had a thought.  A simple thought.  To escape the pain.  I could end it.  Just as my mother did.  I walked like a zombie to the bathroom and sat in the tub.  It would be so simple.  Just a swift cut and I would leave this world and all of its pain behind.  I picked up the razor from the sink, feeling the cool metal on my skin.  So simple, so simple.

           I raised it to my upturned wrist, ready to do it.  Then I remembered the many days spent in the park, the nights spent under the stars, my father’s smile, the way he laughed with me.  The razor clattered to the tub floor.  I couldn’t do it.  I could never do it.  I could never leave my father like that.  Never.  I was not my mother.

         I stood up, legs shaking at what I had almost done.  As I got out of the tub, I realized something.  We all have scars.  We all have pain and suffering.  But we can’t keep quiet about it; otherwise, it will slowly drive us insane.  So I promised myself, I would get through this, my scars would heal.  They would never disappear, but they would fade.  Slowly, but surely, my broken family of two would get through this.  Our scars would heal.  Of that I am sure.