It all happened so fast.

A minute ago I was running down the street, desperate to get away. Even though it's raining, I needed to get away so I ran despite my fear of thunder storms. And now I am lying on the side of a wet, deserted road. The pain is excruciating and I can't move at all. My body is in an awkward position, I can tell that my left leg is broken (it's not the first time) and there's something wrong with both of my wrists. I can feel the gravel digging into my cheek, cutting deep as I shake. The rain is still pouring down, pounding against the pavement and soaking me to the core. I vaguely can hear the periodic rumbling of thunder and every few seconds a streak of lightening lights up the dark and winding road reminding me of the vast emptiness it holds.

I'm not even sure where I am. But I know this is where it ends.

All I wanted was to prove that I was not just another statistic. But does that even matter now in this very moment?

From the age of seven I was stuck in the foster care system being bumped from family to family. And when I turned eighteen just under a year ago, I was no longer their problem. I was basically left on the street to fend for my own. I refused to become a failed product of their system. Initially that's exactly what I was. I was living in a homeless shelter with no income therefore no way to get a higher education or get anything but a dead end job. I had no one to rely on but myself and promised it would always be that way. So what does it matter now? It doesn't. I spent the last year improving my life bit by bit.

And now, here I am... dying alone.

I shouldn't have been so stubborn. I never would have wound up here on this road at this time. I didn't hear the car because of my own sobs mixed in with the deafening sounds of the storm. And by the time I saw the headlights, it was too late. They didn't even slow down.

My body is trembling. I can't tell why. Maybe I'm still crying, or maybe it's from the pain, or it may be from the cold.

I'm so very cold.

I didn't want to become just another statistic. But in death that's just what I will be. We all will be. So why did I spend my entire life waiting to prove that I wasn't one?

That is not what my final thoughts are about though. My thoughts are consumed with him. Now he will never know my truth.

My very last thought before I slipped into darkness was a vision of his face.