Still Living But Not Living Still

Prologue One: Sophia

My lungs burned and my throat ached. The cold numbed my cheeks and bit at the bare skin of my arms as I sped through its stillness. The thinness of the air made it hard to breathe, but I wasn't afraid to keep going. And down the road I raced, unafraid of the paper-thin ice I was blind from during that cold winter night. 

I was just about to make a left turn at the end of the block when I heard my mother scream my name out into the distance behind me. It didn't stop me. I wasn't worried at all because I knew she didn't care enough to come look for me, didn't care enough to call the police to bring me back. In fact, she didn't care at all. I'm a nuisance to her and if I didn't agree with her, then I should just leave. My head pulsed in anger recalling her words, and the thought of her at home, most likely going to attempt at drink me away didn't help. With that I pushed myself harder, willing my legs to go faster, hoping that I could finally outrun her and her poisonous spits. That I could run, and getting away from her would fix my own head; after all, if there is no fuel, fire can't burn. And I hoped that the fires that engulfed my happiness, the fires that my own mother lit, would finally die out and a new joy would emerge from the ash. 

It sounded like wishful thinking from a few miles away, but as I sprinted farther away from the house I couldn't call home, sinking deeper and deeper into the darkness, intentionally losing myself in the night, my dream didn't feel too far from reality. A feeling welled up inside me-- a strange feeling of hope and serenity-- that soothed my anger. At that moment, I was satisfied.

After zig-zagging my way through the neighborhood to a place I didn't recognize, I allowed my legs to go limp and I threw myself into the snow to rest.