I walk, trying to keep my restless, tired body from falling to the cold dew of the ground. “How did I get here?” I think silently in my head, wondering if I will make it to the loving tree of my only memories. I try to think… it all started when Ma died, I lost it, went crazy, and hit my head on a freezing stone in a tragic accident. It took me years to regain some memory of my life, but I only remembered my childhood with a tree...with my mother. I touch my head feeling the bump that scarred me for my whole life, remembering the feeling of warm blood dripping on my shoulders. Remembering the pain I felt when they stuck the sharp needle into my scraped, blood covered flesh, or what I had left of it. Although, I knew I had to keep going, I had to meet the man who killed my young, caring mother and my sanity, which drove me blind.

   I am almost there, at least I hope, my body and mind past exhaustion, more like ready to fall asleep and never to feel the warm sun on my face again. The rain, flooding my clothes with water, making my body feel heavy. No, I couldn’t make it any farther, so I sit, waiting to regain my strength to finish my journey, maybe my life. I knew the man would take no mercy on me, I knew after he told me what happened he would kill me, that was a fact, but I needed closure. A way to go somewhere else, somewhere my mother is. I imagine it to be heaven, a glorious place where sunlight shines forever, a place where after all these years, I would see. So far, I learned not to have high expectations, because they always come crashing down on you.

   I get up, feeling the tingling of the warm sun on my finger tips, I run. I have nothing to lose, so I run as fast as a person who is running for their life, although I know I will be losing mine. I keep going, I feel like I might pass out, and hit another rock that would take, instead of my sight, my hope. The feeling of running to the person who will kill you, is not a good one, but when they grab you, it feels like it is the end of not only you, but the world itself. My memories, or what I had left of them haunt me, but they still flash before me, in a torturous way. I feel the thin blade of a knife on my back, I wonder if I won’t get my closure, but only my death. I hear a familiar voice, one that scares me, even if I hear it in my thoughts. Knowing who was holding me, I felt like I could crash into the stiff grass. It was my father, the one who ran away for money, would he hurt me?

  I thought long and hard for a minute, drowning in silence that would soon lay over my cold, stiff, bloody body. Instead of thinking, I put my actions first, I quickly turned, and grabbed the knife. Once I did, I did something I never imagined to do, something I did not expect. I felt blood cradling my hands, swimming in a pool of regret. I did something I could never undo, I expected to feel my blood not his… My name is Ella and at 13 years old I killed not only a man, but my father.