Be Brave for Me.

Author's Note: I wrote this letter as a creative piece relating to Christmas. This year especially, I've realized how little the materialistic gifts really mean on this day of love and family. Then I began to think of what it would be like for someone without a family on Christmas. I wrote this from the perspective of an eight year old girl whose widower father went to war leaving her with a poor foster family. Let me know what you think!

Dear Santa,

I know you're very busy this year and Ms. Jones says that sometimes you don't have enough time to make it to all the kids houses or read all their letters. And I understand that haven't been a perfect, little girl all year long, either. Sometimes I fight with the other foster kids and last week, when Ms. Jones asked me why I was crying, I lied and told her it was because I bumped my elbow. But anyways, if you're even reading this, I have a favor to ask you. For Christmas I don't want a bike or new toys, what I really want, more than anything in the world, is for you to bring me my Daddy back.

Three years ago, he dropped me off here at the home. I still remember that day. He knelt down in front of me so we were face to face and gently grabbed my arms. He told me that he had to go away for a while. He was going to some place called Afghanistan to catch the bad guys so that here in America I'd be safe. He told me that he was going to be brave for me so I had to be brave for him, too.

I've been very brave the past few years, but i can't grow up without him and he can't stay there forever. The other kids you can make miracles so I was thinking, if you're not too busy this Christmas, maybe you could bring him back to me. And then I could be like all my friends at school, with a real father, and a family of my own.

Thank you for reading this Santa.

Sincerely,

Addie.

Brainwashed.

Author's Note: This was an assigned piece to fit the standards of theme analysis. In this piece I explain the importance of government knowledge and how it is expressed throughout the books Fahrenheit 451 and 1984.

The other day, while doing her social studies homework, my sister began to complain about how knowledge of our government and the history of it serves no importance to people of our society. She then went further into detail about how only people expecting themselves to go on into congress or politics should "have the misfortune of learning this stuff". But, with my newly gained intelligence about the significance of governmental wisdom I got from books, I was able to explain to her why she needs to be educated in this subject. The less you know about your government, the more vulnerable you are to the control of that government.

In George Orwell's 1984, from a very young age, people are brought up learning, or more frankly knowing, that Big Brother is almighty and it is impossible and unimaginable to attempt to rebel against him. From the age of four, children are sent to a facility to be trained to become Junior Spies working for The Party. From there, they continue to be brainwashed by the telescreens that are set up in each and every house, work building and even a midst crowded cities to monitor peoples actions. Blindly controlling people of their country is how the government keeps their power.

In Fahrenheit 451, the government takes a completely different approach when it comes to control, stripping society of their intelligence. Books are prohibited and schools are eliminated. Day after day people sit in their parlors and watch mindless television, unaware of the power their government has over them. They do not dare to own books for they know of the consequences that come from doing so. The uneducated community members are so caught up in their shows and gossip that they don't realize how much power the government has over them.

Lastly, citizens of the community in The Giver, follow the rules of 'sameness' where everything is the same. Everyone has the same amount of money, food, and luxuries as the next one. But the one thing they don't get is power. No one really realizes their lack of control in the community and this is the way the government wants it.

So when my sister wanted to know why we need to know how having knowledge in the history of the government affected her, I referred to these books, more importantly, their common theme. Not only government control but the blind control of it. In every one of these books, the characters were so oblivious to the power that was being held against them that the government held complete power over everything. If we were as uneducated as these people, we could be forced to do practically anything they want and all of our freedom would be taken from us. Thoughts, ideas, emotions...they'd all be gone. And what would we be left with? Nothing. Nada. Not a dollar to our name.

Bold, Bitter, Black.

Author's Note: I wrote this piece to achieve my goal of getting scored a 10 on word choice. This scene in narrated by a blind man who wants more than anything to be able to see again. Let me know how you like it!

As I sit on the hot, dry sand of Pewaukee Beach, I can hear the sound of laughter coming from the children around me. A cool breeze blows against my skin as the night grows older and the sun begins to tuck away until morning. I try to think back to the last time I watched the big, golden mass of fire hit the clear, blue waves of the lake creating even more color and immensity to the already beautiful image. But I can't recall it. I can't see it. It has been far too long since the last time I had opened my eyes to absorb the natural beauties of our world. The wonders of an unforetold future that we take advantage of day after day. Suddenly, the "ooo's", "aww's" and gasps of amazement coming from  people around me sends me plummeting back into reality. A lady next to me nudges my arm and in an anxious tone of voice insists me to look up and experience the astonishing sight they all are watching. But when I do, when I open my eyes and aim my face towards the sky, all I see is bold, bitter, black. 

From Rags to Riches

From the beginning to the end of the book Pretty Little Liars, by Sarah Shepard, Hanah Martin changed herself and her image so drastically, classifying herself a dynamic character. She started off as an overweight, insecure, bullied seventh grade girl but once meeting, befriending and falling under the influence of Ali DiLirentes, her whole life began to change.

Once Ali identified and expressed to Hanah that her weight effects the way people see her and her popularity status, Hanah decided to re-invent herself. So after Ali's passing, Hanah ocuired a sever case of bulimia. With this, she lost so much weight she went from being unquestionably the largest girl in her school to being one of the skinniest. And because of her dramatic change of weight, Hanah also dropped multiple clothing sizes forcing her to have to buy a completely new wardrobe. With her mom's credit card and help from her new best friend, Mona Vanderwal, Hanah proceeded to purchase the entire Louis Viton store and every Chanel handbag on the market.

Now, with her new look also came a new attitude. As her apperence changed her popularity grew, and as people began to look up to her, she started to look down on them. Because she was forced to live in Ali's shadow her whole life, Ali's old and bitter attitude was beginning to rub off on Hanah. She then proceeded to claim her role as alpha and rule the school.

Now, as you can see, one summer changed Hanah a lot. It brought her a new look, new friends and a new attitude. This same occurrence happened in the book Speak, by Laurie Halse Anderson. On the last day of school, main character, Melinda Sordino, called the cops on an 'end of the year' high school party after being sexually assaulted there. Melinda's image changed a lot after that one summer, too. She was neglected by all of her old friends who thought she called the cops due to the amount of under aged kids drinking alcohol at the party. She also became quieter; much, much quieter. Getting a word out of Melinda was as rare as an honest politician. And her nervousness and anxiety caused her to form the habit of biting her bottom lip leaving huge scars in its place making her look much less appealing.

The difference, though, between these two characters was that Melinda went from being one of the most popular girls in school to being the girl who didn't have anyone to sit next to at lunch and spent her weekends sitting in her bedroom alone. On the other hand, Hanah had gone from an over weight, bullied child to a popular, beautiful teenager. She changed herself for, what she thought was to be for the better. But, what she didn't realize was that even though she may have been becoming a better version of herself, it negatively impacted others.

The way she saw herself was just like the way Ali had seen herself; superior. One big change in Hanah's attitude, as stated before, was the way she saw others. She would act as though she were greater than them which made them feel inferior. Many people were intimidated of her, especially her old friends. Hanah's change influenced their lives as much as it did hers. They began to loose their confidence and feeling of importance when Hanah would put them down. And as she acted cruelly to them, they began to act cruelly to each other. All four girls lost a great amount of respect for themselves after Hanah started to act this way.

Her whole life, Hanah Martin wanted so desperately to be popular, look beautiful and feel good about herself. But, during this book, when her wishes were fulfilled and her prayers were answered, her change wound up leaving her with an empty feeling inside. And it kept one question constantly weighing on her mind: Was all of this really worth it?

Founding Fathers

Dear Thomas Jefferson,

Two hundred and twenty three years ago, you, and the rest of our Founding Fathers, wrote the Constitution with hopes to clearly declare that ‘all men are created equal’. But what you failed to execute was the definition of equality. What I would like to tell you is that, before signing off on one of the most momentous documents in our nation’s history, you should further portray your thoughts behind the meaning of that line; all men—male or female, black or white, gay or straight, are created equal—with the same rights, same privileges, and same opportunities.

I find it hard to understand that a slave owner himself would go the extra mile to help write a manuscript stating that people should all be treated the same. Clearly what fall short on realizing is that you don’t just own a slave, you own a man. His life and his soul. You tell him what to do and make all of his decisions yet you still have the audacity to publicly display your plea for freedom of all people. Maybe, back in your time, you were know as a bright, kind hearted man but today, you would be seen as a critical, judgmental hypocrite.

Now, maybe you wanted it to be the way it was: having others do your work while you sit around on your lazy butt and pretend you know how help run this country. Or maybe people just got the impression of what ‘all men’ meant. All that I’m asking for, is clarification. If you wanted only white men to be free, say it. If you want all people of color to forever be slaves, sign it. But if you want all of America to be able to come together in unity, no matter what kind of racial, sexual, or financial differences, change it.

Thank you for your time

Sincerely,

Katie Koplien

Neglect.

Author's Note: This piece was written as a reading response assignment. In it I explain a conflict and resolution from the book 'My Sister's Keeper' written by Jodi Picult.

Did you know that 20% of our world are affected by dyslexia? That one out of five people struggle day after day with reading, writing and spelling disabilities? Or that three quarters of the children who show primary difficulties with basic reading skills cannot be helped to overcome those difficulties to a great extent? Any dyslexic person, especially children, require a large amount of attention, patients and care when it comes to learning.

While reading the book My Sister’s Keeper, one of the conflicts that really stuck out to me was Mr. and Mrs. Fitzgerald’s lack of concern about Jesse’s mental instability.

Their son had been suffering from dyslexia his whole entire life, yet, they didn’t give him the proper attention he needed. Instead, all their interest and awareness was on their daughter, Kate, who was a cancer patient. Throughout the story, Jesse gets himself into a lot of trouble because of his frustration about having to deal with dyslexia on his own. We see him take part in self destructive activities when he comes home very late one night after smoking.

This conflict wasn’t resolved, though, until after the death of the second daughter, Anna. It was then, when this tragedy hit the family, that both Mr. and Mrs. Fitzgerald began to realize their neglect to their troubled son. Jesse then got the attention he needed and deserved and wound up turning his bad decision- based life around. He proceeded to graduate from the police academy in hopes to teach other teenagers, like himself, how to use proper judgment to make the right choices.

Though this may not be the biggest or most important conflict in the book, I feel that this struggle was a very interesting and stuck out to me a lot. In real life, this conflict my be even more vital to a child's lifestyle.

Runaway Baby

Author's Note: This piece was a personal narrative assignment. Throughout the piece I focused on using descriptive, yet appropriate, word choice and demonstrating my knowledge of colons and semi- colons.

As a young child, perhaps the worst thing your parents could ever say to you is ‘no’. No, we cannot go there. No, it will not happen. And the most famous, yet dreadful of all: no, you cannot have that.

I was five years old, the age you are when you start to believe that you’re all grown up. I had just learned to ride my bike, started piano lessons and began to attend my first year of kindergarten. I was on top of the world, or, so I thought. The only thing I didn’t have, was a trusty sidekick. Inspired by our new class pet, I had attained the will, want and withering crave for a bunny.

For the next week or so after school, my post was behind the computer, equipped with a notebook and pencil researching all there is to know about bunnies, domestic and non- captive. I had checked out each and every bunny book in the library to read hours and hours on end when one day, I had finally known it all.

Like every other kid my age, one of the most horrifying things that I could every do was ask my parents. Bringing up the topic and trying to support my reasoning before they cut me off with an immediate “no”, was nearly impossible. So I took a different approach; I made a book. The cover displayed my advanced artistic ability with a picture of a little brown haired, blue eyed girl (me) crying. From my miserable face there emerged a dream cloud, and in it was nothing other than a bunny. The rest of the book continued to explain everything I had learned about this fascinating species, why I deserve to have one and everything I would do to maintain its good health and wellbeing. Now, it may not have been the nicest or neatest book in the world, but in the eyes of a five year old, it was pretty cool!

But in the end, it failed to reach my parents high standards and my request was turned down. And that is when I created an entirely new and more outrageous plan: I was going to run away. Away from my parents who denied me my wish. Away from the many tears I cried when they did. Away from anything and everything I had, because of one thing I couldn’t get.

Almost instantaneously after looking into my father’s eyes and hearing the magical word, ‘no’, I leaped off the couch, ran to the front door and burst out of it. As I began to run down the street (which I still wasn’t allowed to cross by myself), the wind blew through my hair and little gravel rocks dug into my bare feet.

About thirty yards later, I came across the home of my best friend, Shelby. Without reluctance, I pushed open their door and made my way up into her bedroom where I found her sitting on the ground playing with her dolls. Fortunately for me, I was quick on my feet so when she questioned why I was at her house I  made up a story explaining my appearance without so much as a stutter or hesitation. But, when her mom walked in and asked me the same question, that’s when I began to panic. My words jumbled up together and my thoughts trailed off. Eventually, I got my story straight but something was telling me she didn’t buy it. She just smiled and closed the bedroom door leaving us to play in peace.

It was only about an hour later when the high pitched ring of the doorbell disturbed our game. Curious to see who it was that interrupted us, we ran downstairs and watched as Shelby’s mom let them in. When she opened the door I could clearly see that the couple standing in the doorway was no one other than my parents. My mom stood holding my pink and purple polka dotted suitcase and my dad stood tall over her. Upon making eye contact, my mother began to explain the contents of my suitcase.

She told me that she had packed it full with my clothes, pajamas, toothbrush, and a few other items so that I would have my things while I lived at Shelby’s. It was then after when she lay my suitcase on the ground, gave me a kiss on the forehead and began to walk out, when I realized I didn’t want to live there at Shelby’s. My home was at my house, with my family (with or without a new pet). As she reached for the doorknob I flew toward her. And without a word, she took my hand and suitcase and we proceeded to walk back to our house.

When arriving back at home, I couldn’t help but ask my mom the one question that had been weighing on my mind the whole walk home. The one thought I couldn’t shake. Was she actually going to leave me, let me live at Shelby’s house? When approaching her with this she just smiled, let out a heavy breath and told me to look in my suitcase. Unzipping it, I expected see all of my clothes neatly folded into two piles and my socks laying in between them; but I didn’t. When I opened my suitcase I revealed a single item: a toy bunny.

Re- Written.

Author's Note: This piece was an assignment to demonstrate my understanding of re- telling.

After cancer deprives her of an ordinary life, all Hazel Grace has left is her favorite book and the support group that her mother insists on her going to. There she meets a boy that she instantly feels attraction towards. But while taking a trip to Amsterdam together, the many twists and turns leave both of their lives rewritten.

This book expresses all emotions from love and loss, to faith and courage and is an excellent look on what life would be like as a cancer fighting teenager.

Idiot.

Authors Note: I wrote this piece as an assignment explaining what the following quote meant to me. Personally, I found this thought to be a hard one to express and put on paper. Hopefully you understand what I was trying to get out of this. What do you think it means?

"Everyone is an idiot, not just people with low SAT scores. The only difference between us is that we're idiots about different things at different times. No matter how smart you are, you spend most of your day about being an idiot." - Scott Adams

Smart; the dictionary knows it as "having or showing a quick intelligence or ready mental capability". But it's much more than that. Being smart isn't just being able to spell the most words or solve the longest equations. It's not being able to locate different things on a map or having the most extended vocabulary. Smart people think. They consider. They decide. When faced with a problem, a smart person won't only think of all the various solutions, but contemplate their outcomes. How doing one thing can effect so many other things.

One of the most obvious examples of this is in the book The Giver. The people of the community are all idiots. Though many of them excel greatly academically, they don't have the intelligence to think for themselves.They just go along with what everyone else is doing, and what others say they should do. I believe that though these people may be naive to the circumstances they are put under, their overall actions show much form of idiocy.

In today's society, people don't make smart choices. Whether the reason is peer pressure, confusion or even lack of common knowledge. Everybody messes up. Everybody does things wrong. And everybody is an idiot.

Old Man

Author's Note: This piece was written as an assignment to write from the point of view of a man falling in love. The age I was given was 52. I'm not exactly sure how guys think at that age so...here it is...

I'm 52-- basically an old man. People think I'm too old for love. Someone like me was given many years to find it, and now my time is up. They think that once reaching a certain age, your love begins to fade, weaken, wash out. When I said I wanted to share the rest of my life with her, they made remarks about how there's not a lot of my life left. But I don’t care…. I love her.

Running from Death

Author's Note: This piece was written as an assignment to analyze the theme in Edgar Allen Poe's story The Masque of the Red Death. I found that the theme in this story was running from death, though Poe makes it clear that cheating death is impossible. As a forewarning to all readers this is NOT my best work and still may need some revising done to it.

Death- it's sad, it's scary, it's surprising. It already has your fate picked out. It knows when it will take you, and where, and how. It knows why you will leave the earth. And it knows the where you'll wind up after you do. Death knows no mercy. Death knows no fear. It's right behind you. Watching you. Following you. Chasing you. You can’t run, it’ll catch you. You can't hide, it'll find you. But if you're not careful, it'll take you. 

Prince Prospero in Edgar Allan Poe's story "The Masque of the Red Death," was clearly too naive to realize this. He thought he could avoid it. Prevent it from happening. He thought that holding a party would keep him, and the rest of the attendees, safe and alive. When locking the doors of the castle, his motives weren't to keep the people locked IN, but more to have death locked OUT.

But you can't keep it out-- no one can. You can’t take away its power or make it so it doesn't happen. Death will find you, catch you, take you. Death is there, whether you see it or not. It's right behind you. Every day stepping closer and closer. A little more. Growing bigger as you get smaller. Smaller. Smaller. Until suddenly, you’re gone.

The Not- So Crystal Stairs

Author's Note: This piece is an analysis to the poem "Mother to Son" by Langston Hughes. Please refrain from any negative comments seeing as I wrote it in approximately seven minutes.

                “Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair”. That’s what Langston Hughes’ mother always told him. Life’s not perfect and pure. It has its faults and uncertainties. She talks of the splinters you will get and the boards that get torn up. Splinters representing the many small pains you will inquire and the boards being relationships long gone. Whether with a friend, family member, or even a lover, bonds will be broken and boards will be torn.

                As you hear the mother speak of the hardships she had to face, it sets the tone of sorrow. Picturing the labor people like her we forced through and the little reward and gratitude they were granted. It is hard to understand her exact circumstances, though we all can relate in different ways. I feel pitiful when reading this, yet it inspires me to live my life more fully and entirely. It also helps me understand that nothing is perfect, for anyone, so when I’m struggling I won’t let it knock me over, I won’t get down. I will get up and keep climbing…the not- so crystal stairs.

Alone.

Authors Note: This piece was assigned as a point of view essay for the book Speak. I wrote this scene as an example of what it's like to live in Melinda's life and how she feels getting abandoned by her best friend. The next piece is the same scene but from the point of view of Rachel.

Melinda.
"We'll always be best friends."
"I'll never tell your secrets."
"I won't ever abandon you."
Just a few lies your best friend will tell you. They'll say that they are, and forever will be, there for you. Whenever you need them they’ll be there, to listen to you, comfort you, help you. But at some point in your life they'll ditch you, whether you're not good enough or they found someone better, one day they'll be gone.

As I walk through the cafeteria I exchange glances with Rachel, the girl who neglected me. Mine, friendly and welcoming, was quickly answered with her nasty snarl. I opened my mouth to say something but before I could get a word out Rachel tossed her hair over her shoulder, pointed her chin to the sky and walked away. A quizzical expression began to form on my face as I watched the girl who I used to share everything with walk off. Maybe if she'd listen to what I had to say, the way she used to say she would, things would be different. But the rumors about me, everything everyone is saying are making her second guess me. The girl she's known all her life. The girl she knows everything about. The girl she said she'd be there for.

I won't lie and say the rumors aren't true, but I will be honest and say they are not complete. It's true, I lied to my parents, I went to the party, I called the cops. But what everyone doesn’t know is that I got sexually assaulted.

I always wanted to know what happens that makes people you know become people you knew. And how someone can go from being your best friend to your worst enemy without as much as a for warning. I wanted to understand what makes people feel the right to judge others without actually knowing them. Looking back at all of that, I wish I never found out.

Rachel.

Ditch your friends.

Get caught up with upperclassman you don’t know.

Call the cops.

Just a few things you should never do at a party. Melinda Sordino, the girl I thought was my best friend, obviously didn’t get it. After all the trouble I went through to get us into that party, all she had to do was play it cool and stay there; but she couldn’t even do that. Was she trying to embarrass me? Did she only take the invite because she thought busting the kids would make them respect her, even before high school started? Or was she really so naive that she didn’t understand that alcohol is as essential to a party as people are?

When I walked into the cafeteria on the first day of school, I spotted her immediately. She looked at me and smiled, almost like she was happy to see me. Like the night of the party never happened. But I was not ready to forget what she did. So I tossed my hair behind me and headed off before she could get a word out.

She thinks I’m mean. She thinks I left her. She thinks it’s my fault. It’s not. I would have forgiven her and helped her out, but she made it perfectly clear she didn’t want my assistance. She abandoned me.

It's Okay to Cry

There are 6,840,507,000 people in the world. Right now someone somewhere is laughing. And someone is crying. Someone has just been brought into the world, and another has just left. Someone is screaming in excitement, and someone else is screaming in fear. There is someone hiding from the truth and someone just now facing it. Some people love. Some people hate. But everyone hurts. Everyone feels pain. No matter how big or small, everyone suffers. But, of those 6,840,507,000 people, 6,840,507,000 souls, sometimes, all you need is one, to take all the pain away.

April 19th. That was the day. The day everything changed. The A's on my report card started to turn to D's. The sparkle in my eyes started to turn to tears. The smile on my face started to turn to a frown. The love that held parents together…broke.

2am every morning, when most eleven year old girls would be asleep, I'd be awoken by the sound of my dad stumbling down the hallway, and crashing into walls. As my mom would try to help him up he'd scream and yell, utter a few cuss words and some nights, even throw a few punches. And then, he'd fall. Mom would drag him into bed and the next morning he'd complain about his terrible head ache. I, meanwhile, would lay in my bed, still, motionless, and after realizing everyone has gone to bed, I'd cry.

This went on for two years. My dad came home drunk every night. My mom would tend to him every night. I cried every night. Until April 19th. My mom became strong that day. After my dad came home from the bar and passed out on the couch, she carried him into her car. She drove two hours to the nearest rehab facility, left him a note she had written, and drove away. That was the last time I saw her happy. The last time she saw me happy. The last time anything was… happy.

The next eight months were the longest eight months in my life. I went to several court trials and talked to a countless number of lawyers, child care advisors, and other people with the state. They asked a lot of questions, there were a few I was unable to answer, some I was not sure how to answer, but most of them I wasn’t comfortable answering. When you're thirteen and your life is as messed up as mine was, when complete strangers ask you question after question to reveal things of your personal life, it can get to be very intimidating. But some of them were sympathetic, they would tell me everything is going to be ok. Others were cold hearted, they  would tell me that life's not fair and you can't always get what you want. I'm honest. I told myself that they're lying. That nothings going to be ok, and that though life isn't fair, this family wasn't something I wanted, it was something I needed.

December 21st was the date of our last trial. That was the day everything became legal. My parents were no longer married, and I was to live in my house with my mother. Dad was being sent back to rehab and I wasn’t allowed to have any interaction with him until the age of eighteen. That was the day everything became final. I couldn’t go back and give our family another chance in hopes that things would turn out better. That was the day everything became real.

I like to run. I always have. It gives me an excuse to get out of the house, and time to think. I can go for as long as I have thoughts to carry me through. Sometimes I run a block, and others I run four miles. But the distance has never bothered me. Sometimes I would begin to breathe more and more heavily and drops of sweat run down my face, but I have never gotten too tired to stop. Stopping is giving up, and giving up is a sign of weakness. I am not weak.

I'm the kind of girl that walks through the hallways by myself. I'm the kind of girl who sits at a table alone during lunch. I'm the kind of girl who doesn’t get invited to parties or sleepovers. I'm the kind of girl that sits at home alone without anything to do. I'm the kind of girl that’s okay with it.

Some state that they wouldn’t be able to live without their friends, I disagree. I've been doing it just fine. My lack of friends isn't because people don't like me, actually in sixth grade I was voted class president by almost a unanimous vote. And I sat at the table with all the pretty and popular girls, but that was sixth grade. Since my parents’ divorce, I've practically isolated myself from the whole rest of the world. I didn’t sit with the other girls anymore, I didn’t raise my hand when my teacher asked for volunteers, I didn’t open up…to anyone.

One time, my mom made me go to a therapist. She said I was socially unstable and this lady was supposed to help me "break out of my shell". But there was no need. I could make friends if I wanted to. Have a party if I wanted to. Smile if I wanted to. The whole point was that I didn’t want to. And why was she to care? It's my life and I'm the one living it. But I knew it would kill her to see me reject this opportunity back to normal life, so I went.

The lady was tall. She had tan skin and short, brown hair. Her smile was white and her voice calm and quiet. I heard it the moment I stepped into her office and the moment I stepped out. The whole hour I was there I sat, listening to her voice float around the room. I didn’t speak. I didn’t see the point. I didn’t have to tell this lady, one that I had never met before, stories about my personal life. She tried hard to get me to talk, she really did, but I was so appalled my mom sent me to this place that I didn’t budge, not once.

When my mom came to pick me up, she spoke with my therapist. I heard them use words like hopeless and impossible. It was then I realized a few things; I would never again come back here, my mom would never again force me to change, and I would never again be normal.

So this was my life. One some may call broken or dispirited. I was too absorbed in what I didn’t want, that I couldn’t bring myself to recognize what I longed for the most. What would dig me out of this hole I've buried myself in. What could turn my life around. That was, until I met Lucas.

December 21. That was the day. The fifth anniversary of my parents divorce. When I went to school, I looked around. I thought how one day could be so symbolic, such a major concern to someone but to someone else, it’s just another day. They didn’t know what that day meant, what had happened exactly five years ago. And quite frankly, they didn’t care. But I knew. I cared. And for that, I ran.

I ran down a path, through the woods, along the streets. I ran everywhere my legs would take me. And after about an hour of running I began to sweat more and more. More than I had ever before. But soon I realized that it wasn’t sweat soaking my face, it was rain. And just as I started on my way home the light shower turned immediately into a downpour. But I kept running, and kept pushing, that is, up until I fell.

There was a small ditch, right up near the curb. I stepped in it and my ankle twisted. As my momentum carried my forward I began to fall. My head came in contact with a rock and… that’s all I can remember.

I woke up laying in a hospital bed. I could see my mom outside the door talking to three doctors and sitting in a chair behind them was a boy. Tall, and buff with big brown eyes. I assumed he was about seventeen as I am. His head was down and hands were clasped, almost as though he were praying. I saw my mom’s head turn towards me and suddenly her eye caught mine. She let out a sudden sigh of relief before running into the room greeting me back to consciousness with a hug and kiss on the forehead.

After talking to her for a while she had mentioned that there was someone she wanted me to meet. It was then when the boy, Lucas, got up and joined us in the room. He told how he was driving when he came across me laying on the road side. He had picked me up, put me in his car, and drove me to the hospital. There, the doctors identified me, found my records and called my mom.

As he spoke, I couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened if he wouldn’t have seen me, or ignored me when he did. Would someone else, someone as gracious as he, have come along. Or would someone despicable have found me. Pick me up and take me away. Away to somewhere that I'll never get out of. I wouldn’t e see my mom again. I wouldn’t see my house again. I wouldn’t see anything again. I began to miss what I had, though I never believed I’d actually had anything. But then, that moment, I realized what I did have.

I thought that was the purpose. To understand that through everything that has happened, I still have a lot. A roof over my head, clothes on my back, and a mother in my heart. I though that was why fait had made it that I fell, and that Lucas found me. But I soon found out, that wasn’t exactly it’s intention.

I was grateful of Lucas. He practically saved my life. And once I got  out of the hospital my mom thought it'd be a good idea to meet him somewhere. So that’s what I did. I called him up and we planned to meet at the little diner in town. That day I put on makeup, I wore jeans instead of sweats and instead of my normal pony tail, I let my hair hang in loose curls. And for the first time in five years, I looked at myself and felt beautiful.

When I arrived at the dinner Lucas was already there, seated at a booth in the back. He looked nice. His clothes weren't ratty and his hair was combed. When he spotted me his eyes lit up and a smile began to grow on his face. I sat down in the booth at 6:03. I got back up at 10:30, when the diner closed.

Lucas walked me home that night; the night after that and the night after that. We were always together. He made me feel good about myself. He made me feel like I was important. He made me feel happy. That was when I told him about my parents.

I told him about getting woken up in the middle of the night by my intoxicated father. I told him about when he'd hit my mom. And I told him about April 19th and December 21st. I told him of everything and he listened. He gave me feedback every once in a while but I could tell he wasn’t all too sure what to say. I didn’t blame him, though, he doesn’t know what it’s like to go through this. That was when I told him something, something I had never told anyone before.

About two weeks after my parents’ divorce my mom went into a deep depression. I didn’t see her for almost a month. She had locked herself in her room refusing to come out. I could hear her cry at night. Have you ever heard your mom cry? It's different than anyone else crying.  Moms are supposed to hold you and tell you everything's going to be alright. But when they’re constantly weeping, you feel hopeless. That's exactly when I changed; when I realized that I was the one who had to be strong. If she couldn’t, I had to be.

He listened very intently to this. When I finished he spoke. He told me that you don’t have to be strong all the time. Sometimes people fall apart and become weak, that's what living's all about. It’s okay to hurt, to feel pain; it’s okay to cry. It's okay to give up sometimes. With every word I began to cry a little more and more until finally, I broke down.

                It was my eighteenth birthday. Mom had gone to therapy and Lucas sat right beside me. We spent the day lounging around the house watching movies and discussing our plans for the future; where we would go after high school. What we’d do after collage. Lucas composed a master plan of how he would spend his next few years, where he's going to collage, his major, his house, car, everything. He seemed to have it all figured out. I, on the other hand, hadn’t have thought too deeply about that.

As he finished his complete description of the lake side house he's planning on buying straight out of college, the door swung open. I figured it was just my mother and continued the conversation. Until I found out that the person who walked into my house, was my father.

It took two hours for the police to finally get to my house. They had been able to get my dad in handcuffs and force him into their car. They had been able to contact and alert my mother of the situation. But what they hadn't been able to do, was save Lucas. And now I stand there, staring down at my dead boyfriend. He's covered in blood and bruises from my father’s beating. I don’t know what to think. For the second time, this boy had saved me, but this time, it was different. This time he risked his life, and all of his dreams he had told me about, for me. Just two hours previous to this he was talking of what he wants to do may years into the future unaware that he wasn’t even going to be given a chance at tomorrow.

I thought about how I will never get to see him smile again, or hear his voice. I thought about the day he saved me when I had gotten knocked out after falling onto the sidewalk. And I thought about what he told me one night while walking me home. He said that everyone hurts, feels pain and has to give up sometimes. But most importantly, he told me that it’s okay to cry… so I did.