I quietly opened the old school staircase that led into the ceiling, as I walked up the steps smelling the scent of old oak. I had risen into the attic, the one place I could call home, I relished at the sight of my room and suddenly felt a pang of regret as soon I would leave it all behind. The old attic was the only part of this modernised Victorian mansion that hadn't been touched, they left the original carvings and even the old bay window was original. It felt nice, like this room reflected my personality, how I never wanted change, somehow change was everywhere around me but I stayed the same. I was twelve years old when my parents died, I understood how death affected people and how it could ruin the lives of many. I wasn't going to let that happen, I mourned but not for long, I decided I wasn't going to let this control my life. The guilt would overcome me, it was my fault, it was my fault my parents were dead. I encouraged them to take that trip to Thailand, I heard drowning was the worst way to go.
