6 years, ago, my father died.
At the mere age of 9, when you begin to develop your relationships, my father died. I was supposed to be at the pinnacle of my life, and my father died.
The pain was unbearable.
The shock tenfold.
So I step onto the balcony, in the middle of the rooftop.
The merciless wind slices across my cheeks, already tinted pink from the cold. While only a fraction of my mind acknowledges the slow steps I take, the rest is fully aware of the proximity to the welcoming ending of my life—the ground.
As if a siren goes off inside me, I straighten up and sigh, reluctant to leave my hideout but knowing the necessity to do so.
I never intended for the rooftop to become my abode, but here we are. With the last year's dusty and flickering Christmas lights dangling across the four cornering poles on this barren ground, it almost feels like the home I've never had.
Sorry. I couldn't help but exaggerate.
Live through the last four years of my life. You'll relate instantly. Home is not and will forever not have a page in my dictionary. It dispersed utterly and thoroughly, which is tragic but true nonetheless.
I stare out the balcony, the wind catching in my hair, free strands flying across my face. I check the clock on the top of the Actree Academy–the neighboring school–and start cleaning up the campsite I've created. The Christmas lights go off, and the poles snap into small portable sticks. I pick the barely lit lantern into the air and drape the checkered blankets around me, shielding myself from the frosty air. Tossing the lights and the poles into the small hole of shattered glass, I slide down the plumbing pipes onto the house railing and carefully advance towards my open window. I place my foot onto the rusted windowsill and lean on it with my weight. Reluctant to return to my prison, I longingly stare out behind me and at the ground below. It would be significantly easy to end this torture instantly. I wish to throw my body to the ground, my corpse and gore painting the streets, sirens music to my dying ears. I can almost hear it. I can almost feel it.
Alas, the principal would hate to clean my organs, we're already on bad terms.
As I step into my cage, I cry as I close the window. I was so close.
But then again, isn't everyone?
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Outsider
Mystery / Thriller"Go out to society, they said. It'll be fun, they said."
