Hey peoples! I need to know- does this really fit into the kids category? Or should I move it to general? Should I even continue posting this stuff? Because if I don't start getting more reviews I'm going to just quit and stop updating. Tell me and BE HONEST! Thanks

Seeing Py jump out at me like that really is terrifying. And had I not known Py nearly all of my life, I would be hiding in the brush. Well, maybe not, there isn't really any use of that, but I would at least be screaming for Mama. It's terrifying the way that she knowingly uncurls her ripped, ragged, fingers and scarred dirty hands that show she's been in many fights. Well, actually she hasn't, but falling out of trees, being stabbed by Frisca, and having a crazy dog that had been cooped up in a cage of his life set on her has given her several serious wounds. And the dog proves that, while Py may have a thing with dogs and animals it's not like in the movies where the main character can get just look at an animal and they will instantly obey them.

Anyways, she barely manages to scrap my face with her clenched nails before I leap out of the way letting her land lightly on her hands. "Aww come on Mo! You NEVER let me have any fun." She pretends to pout and then straightens and grins mischievously. Uh oh.

"Race you to The tree?" She doesn't wait for an answer before dashing off like a bullet. "For the second time today." I grumble under my breath, but half heartedly, for the instant after a mutter this, I race after her, letting her win yet again. Before long I catch her, It's not hard. And as soon as I realize this, I know that she's playing another prank. I shake my head then speed up to scoot down the path before her. While another might mistake Py's stroll as a decent, slightly faster than average run, but when I see her, I know something's wrong. When she's feeling up to it, the first this she does is run as fast as she can, for Py is strong and can run fast for long distances. She won't slow down for hours and hours and to be perfectly honest, I don't know why she would stop. She sleeps extremely little and is used to hunger. These are the advantages to being physically abused the majority of your life- you get used to the pain of aching muscles, bad wounds, and a hungry stomach.

I know that she'll find some way or another to get ahead of me. Turning around I wiggle my fingers in my ears and stick my tongue out like I'm five again. She does the same back. I make a face then go back to my jog, not bothering to look back again, for I know that by the time I do, she'll be gone. I sigh then give it my best to get there before her.

The path to the far neighborhoods isn't very well used, it's covered in grass and crunchy brown leaves. Crimbly. The word pops into my head before I can stop it. Crimbly. Yes. It's covered with grass and crimbly brown leaves. No Mo. I say to myself. Crimbly isn't a word. Still running I do a cartwheel, letting my arms and legs go loose while my arms take up the strength of my body. It's a good feeling.

Pound, pound, pound, pound. Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch. Thump, thump, thump, thump. All at once, these sounds play over and over again in my head. Leaves crunching under my feet which are banging against the cement resulting in a flat, thump sound. Kind of like it's hollow only it isn't. But the loudest sound of all is my head, pounding nonstop, thoughts whirling around, making it throb. It's sickening.

All at once I can feel. I can feel the squirrel on the side of the road as it gasps for breath, an open wound spewing blood. Road kill. Suddenly I can feel every little death around me. Things I've noticed before but never really thought about. I can feel the last leaf on a tree sighing as it falls off it's life source, knowing that I'll step on it, taking away it's last "breath." And as I do, I hear a "snap" and get the urge to kneel down and clutch my head. I feel as itf I'm ill. "No, Mo." I repeat, aloud this time. "You have to beat Py, Mo." When I start running again, it's more urgent, as if I'm running from something rather than to something. Yes. That's it, I think to myself. It's all to get away from all of the death. An elderly deer takes it's last gasp in the forest. A small bird is snatched out of the air by a hawk. All of these things are suddenly filling my nose, my ears, my head. I run faster.

Finally the far neighborhoods come into view. Dirty huts covered in mud. Brick houses with peeling gray paint and twigs sticking out of the gutter. Fallen trees that nobody has bothered to clean up are covered with ivy and moss, denting a roof but nobody cares. That's a comical scene. A tree falls on the house. Inside the people stare out the window and shrug. This happens every day. It's miserable. But the worse seems to be Joe's. My house is the worse. Mud has been thrown at it, paintballs have splattered the windows and doors. There is no paint in the tiny house, it's all been scraped off, revealing disgusting, stinky, grey, splintered wood. It looks as if the house was made of twigs for the branches that cover the house are so thick that you can no longer see the roof. And that's it on a good day.

Across the street is Frisca's house, which is nearly as bad only no paintballs. And it' coming loser, and closer. Close up I can see the red windows. Stained with blood? It's possible. I may have no relation to Frisca, but knowing what she's done to Py, it's all I can do but hate her. My feet pound harder on the cracked concrete.

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