Run

:1: ƬӇЄ ƁЄƓƖƝƝƖƝƓ

 :1: The Beginning

I stare out of the small barred window, wishing that just once more I could feel the soft grass beneath my bare feet and the cold September breeze flutter against my skin.

I have been locked inside my house for a year due to my father, and I would give anything to be outside again; to be somewhat free. Yet again, though, the outside world isn’t the best place either. Terrorists armed with rifles are everywhere, and one wrong move could cost you your life.

The environment is also damaged, with sickening smog that hangs in the air from the factories and chemicals all around. It wasn’t always like this though; the place used to be wonderful. But everything changed with the bombings...

One year ago today, President George Walker Bush was shot to death from unknown attackers, after being flown into New York to try to help the 9/11 situation. We knew we had a Vice President who would rise from the lament and serve our country back to sanity though. However, soon after the President’s death, crowds upon crowds swarmed into North America; filled with terrorists of all kinds, which wanted power and thought they somehow deserved it.

The Vice President then declared war, sending the entire country battling against the unknown attackers- taking revenge for the President, our freedom, and our loved ones lost in the 9/11 disaster.

I heave a depressed sigh, trying not to think much more of that day, but I no longer can stop…

Bombs blew up innocent civilians’ houses, killing off children, men, and women. It was as horrible as anything and I knew it was coming soon to where I lived; no war can stay away for long.

I remember sitting down on my plush white bed in the basement, wishing that my mom and dad would just stop fighting and come join me- in safety- instead. They usually always fought, at least once a day, over something or another.

Sometimes I thought that what they did was for the best; that talking through their problems would get them to love each other more. Boy was I wrong though, for it all got worse when my father developed anger issues, and abused me and my mother for his own pleasure.

“Carnate!” I hear my dad, Levin, yell, shaking me from my memories and making me look over to him. The 47 year old man stands on a wobbly wooden chair, his greased-back brown hair, burn marked face, and repulsive, dull clothing pulls at my sanity since he truthfully couldn’t look worse.

“What should I help with?” I quietly ask him, not necessarily wanting to talk to him at all.

"You’re going to help me fix this ceiling, since I no longer can keep my balance on this old thing,” he roughly tells me, while climbing down from the chair and pushing me over onto it. I adjust my feet onto the seat and try to keep myself steady, but it seems almost impossible. I only help him with these sorts of things, because I know if I didn’t I would be beaten- just like my mother had been so many years in the past. “The boards are loose and I need you to pound some nails in, to keep them in place.”

"Shouldn’t this be done out on the roof?” I ask, since putting in nails upside down is not really the way to do this. He gives me a stern glare, and immediately I know I’ve made him mad by correcting him. Sighing, I gather up some nails into the palm of my small, pale-skinned hand and try to reach the boards up top, but failing in the attempt.

“Carnate, you’re 19 years old, you really should be able to reach the ceiling,” he tells me, as I extend on the tip of my toes to reach better.

“Father, I’m 18 years old.” I correct him, almost losing my balance once or twice on the chair. I can’t believe he doesn’t know his daughter’s age yet- but I really don’t care if he knows anything about me, that just saves me from the horror of him using it against me later on somehow.