It wasn’t his fault. He’d wake up to the yelling of his drunken parents. He’d go with his “friends” and work the streets. Without education and no decisions of his own he’d walk along the streets alone most of the time, confused. He’d stay at a place on the edge of town for most of the day and he’d think to himself, I’ve had enough. It wasn’t his fault being found dead, alone, and hopeless looking for himself. He was only 17 and he was wandering around his old house. His room was untouched and everyone followed the same routines, like they didn’t know what happened, like they didn’t care.