Part one

You needn't tell a bird it's a bird or remind a fish of its purpose. It's only us who lose our way we have names because we must.-Golden Tongue: The poems of Steven Slaughter.

My name is Matthew; my last name was lost long ago. I lived in Brooklyn, New York. This accommodation only lasted for fifteen years. My age is clearly 18. I have experienced a lot over the last three years both physically and mentally challenging.

The day my father Robert was drafted is clearly memorable. It was the day my imp of a brother Tim broke the television. We were playing baseball outside and he hit the ball so hard it moved faster than time. It shattered the television screen into millions of tiny little pieces. We darted into the living room to see our mother Allison. Tim and I were dead.

My mother didn't react just handed me the mail. I was joyous so I flipped through the mail. The mail was junk, junk, junk and a letter for my father. I jolted up the stairs to hand my father his letter. I tripped on the third step. The letter creaks open like a rusted door. I stare shocked before my father grabbed the letter.

I sprinted through the open door running to clear my head. My temper was flaring as high as 190 degrees Fahrenheit. In my mind I was screaming but my lips were sealed as tight as Fort Knox. My anger was released and I was content. I sprinted back to the house. The door creaked open and there was silence. The silence scared me.

The world felt like a slow black and white horror movie. The silence added to the fear I already had .I walked into the kitchen and there was a note on the fridge. It was too smudged to read. I walk into the living room to see my mother on the floor gasping for air .I dialed 911 and slowly but surely drifted to sleep in the ambulance.