VOILET'S POV
Sitting in my room is like having all the memories drown me in my own tears, but the guilt punching me in the head first. The past sticked to me like someone personally opened my skull, wrote it on paper, glued it to my brain, and put a lock on it, but the victim will always hold the key never letting me forget. I packed my bags consisting of beaten converse, two pairs of jeans, a couple of t-shirts, a lighter, twenty dollars, and an old picture.
I wandered the dark night leaving me lost never to be found. I sat on a curb as all of the cars drive by me, the bright lights of Times Square trying to light up my soul, but failing miserably. I was starting to freeze, and nothing kept me warm. I looked for a bench and quietly laid down. I couldn't bare the hole in my heart. I promised myself that no matter what happens, I will always stay true to myself, and never lose the person I am today. A fighter.
I put the bag under my head and I closed my eyes, hoping that all of this was a twisted dream and I would wake up in my bed, my dad reading the newspaper, and my mom cooking breakfast. I know, sounds really cliché, but that's how my life was. It was perfect. Reminding myself of that made myself want to break down. I am a fighter. No tears and no pity.
I sat back up and grabbed the Polaroid picture of my family out of my bag. I studied it long and hard, trying to remember that day. The memory never came back to mind as I quickly grabbed my lighter and held it up over the snow. Holding onto the corner of the picture I lit the other side with the orange flame. I watched intently as little bits of ash drifted down. Just before the flame could burn my hand I let it drop into the snow, as if I let all of the old memories burn. The smoke died down, I laid back down on the bench, and hoped some way, this would get better.
