I manage to make out the many silhouettes of towering trees as the blackness envelops me.

My blurred vision tells me that I am running.

A rattle echoes through the hollow branches, but I cannot determine the source of the sound.

It is coming from everywhere.

A cold sweat drips down my face as a bitter chill snakes through my veins.

The blackness grows thicker and thicker.

It is the hand forcing me down.

Now I am falling.

I open my eyes.

I take a quivering breath and sit up.

I bring my knees to my chest to stop the shaking.

Usually, when I have a nightmare,

my mother is there to turn on the light and hold me.

She would make me forget about everything I had just witnessed.

But she is not there.

I check the time: 6:00 am.

Might as well get ready for school.

I feel my way to the door, then make my way downstairs.

Usually, my mother would have opened the blinds,

letting the light bleed through onto the smooth hardwood floors.

A delectable breakfast would be waiting for me on the delicately set table.

The first thing I would see when I came down the stairs is my mother’s smiling face.

But she is not there.

There is no light bleeding through,

in fact,

the shutters are bolted shut.

My bare feet make prints on the dusty, cold floors.

There is no breakfast waiting for me.

However, there is an old crust of bread on the edge of the counter. Yum.

I proceed back up the stairs and find myself in front of my father’s bedroom.

The stench of alcohol callously greets me when I open the door.

I can barely make out his face through the darkness and musty, thick air of the room.

A singular light bulb hangs in the center of the ceiling.

Shattered.

Usually, my mother and I would pull back the curtains,

allowing the bright gleam to wake him up.

I would then jump on the bed and he would let out the same deep, yet light chuckle that I had heard so many times before.

But she is not there.

Instead, my father will probably sleep through the day.

I do not think he knows how to laugh anymore.

I close the door and go back to my room.

I don’t bother to open my closet.

I grab the closest items on the floor.

I guess I’m wearing sweatpants and a hoodie.

Again.

My untouched, unfinished homework waits on my gray desk.

I don’t take it with me.

I bound back down the stairs, grab my backpack and head out the door.

The sun has just begun to rise.

Seeing the golden rays filter through the spindly branches of the oak tree in my front yard,

does not fill me with the same warm feeling that it used to.

Instead, a trembling shiver crawls up my skin.

Usually my mother would be waiting in the welcoming comforts of our warm car.

Music would be playing and she would be singing along.

I would act all embarrassed and jokingly tell her to stop, which would just make her sing louder. But she is not there.

There is no music.

Just the harsh growl of the school bus coming up the street.

It screeches to a halt in front of my house.

I trudge down the cracked porch and climb up the steps.

They get steeper and steeper each day.

As I head to the last row, I get mixed looks from former friends and acquaintances.

Some look at me as if I carry a viral disease.

Some pretend not to look but I can feel the darting eyes land on me like pesky bugs.

Some look me up and down then turn to whisper something to their friends.

But the worst are the looks of pity.

I reach the back and sit down.

Alone.

I pull my hood over my head and hug my backpack to my chest,

which I then bury my face in.

When I hear the routine shuffling of feet and the squeal of the bus door opening, I lift my head.

My vision is blurred by dark spots from clenching my eyes so tightly.

I join in the shuffling.

There are still 15 minutes before class, so I head to my bathroom.

It has been out of order for two months now, so it is always empty.

The door makes a high pitched squeal, then swings back around and slams against the frame.

I have become used to the griminess of the floor,

the screeching of the pipes,

the constant tap of the water hitting the sink.

I was drawn to the atmosphere of isolation and despair of the place.

I sit in my usual stall and let the tears roll down my face.

My father gets angry when I cry at home.

I battle with my body, trying to force the sob back down my throat.

I lose.

The walls get closer.

The only functioning fluorescent light in the corner flickers rapidly.

The screeching pipes get louder.

Everything is one large blur.

I burst out of the stall and catch myself on the sink.

I go to one class, then spend the rest of the day in my bathroom.

When the last bell rings, I decide some fresh air would be good for me.

I leave through the back exit just a few steps from my bathroom.

It takes me 45 minutes to walk home.

As expected, my late arrival had gone unnoticed.

Usually, my mother and I would go out to eat for lunch.

We made it our mission to try every restaurant, diner, and cafe in the city.

My mother always requested to be seated outside.

“Sunshine is the best medicine,” she would say,

“you can’t take it for granted.”

In her free time, she would sit on the front porch,

soaking up all of the medicine she could get.

But she is not there.

I have not gone out to eat for what seems like forever.

I have not eaten, period.

Storm clouds crowd the sky.

We are not getting any medicine today.

The rest of the afternoon is hazy.

I’ve spent so much time in my head lately,

it is difficult to discern between reality and imagination.

The setting sun snaps me out of my trance.

The swirls of soft yet vivid colors used to signify the end of a joyous day.

A time to rest, relax, and prepare for the next joyous day.

Now, they are just part of the same meaningless cycle.

A few hours pass.

Blackness has monopolized the sky.

Another starless night.

I have wasted another futile day.

I have not seen my father since this morning.

I change out of my school clothes and leave them on the floor.

I will probably wear them again tomorrow.

I climb under the covers.

Immersed in darkness once again.  

Usually, my mother would lightly knock her signature knock on the door.

I would call for her to come in.

We would share the best moment of our day.

It was so hard choosing just one.

I do not have that problem anymore.

She would kiss me on the forehead,

then give me her ear-to-ear smile that lit up the room.

But she is not there.

She will never be there.

The drunk driver made sure of that.