Anonymous

She stormed out of the old hellhole, also known as her home. That was it, the final straw. She had never felt close to her mother since her parents had divorced and mom married her stepdad. She now 18 years old had decided to run away. She was a girl that liked books that made her cry and music turned up too loud. She didn't weigh much for age, but she had been petite since she was a small child. This particular girl liked pizza and anything rock n’ roll. She enjoyed bands with more of an indie feel. Although she was a bright smart girl, she lacked good social skills and is usually very shy. She was born and raised in Asheville, North Carolina and has always been different than other girls since the day she was born.

She felt childish for leaving but she had no more options. It was all too much. She owned not a car, not a bike. But she had her feet and a drawstring bag.

As she ran out of her large, caging house, down her street of houses similar to her own, all with their own struggles locked away in a dollhouse like simplicity, her massive, spotted dog jumped on her forcing her onto the ground as of saying, “Don’t leave me.” But she did leave. And the depressed dog ran back into the house whimpering and crying like a child.

She walked for what seemed like hours, on a road that would lead her nowhere. She examined the world around her seeming brighter and more vibrant and she felt the freedom blow through her hair.

And she was happy.

Few cars passed none of which acknowledged the young girl, or as she felt, the young woman. After what seemed many more hours a rusty old Volkswagen passed her. She looked in the window and saw an attractive young man covered in tattoos and dreads longer than her own hair. He continued driv...

... middle of paper ...

...use of loss of oxygen but it was, in fact, for the matter of confusion, fear and a broken heart. And on her tombstone was written, “Anonymous.” and that was what she was. And never was the young bi-polar Schizophrenic seen again by the workers at the hospital that was actually a mental facility, or by her made up friends and mother who had died when she was born or non-existent step father or real father that had left before she was born or by the stray dog that followed her everywhere in 2nd grade and was ran over in 3rd. And the boy, whom she thought she loved, with a buzz-cut and flawless, un-marked skin laid her small purple, ripped drawstring bag over her grave, being the only known thing she owned other than the clothes on her body, which eventually blew away along with the life of the young nameless girl whom no one loved or understood.

And she was happy.