She stormed out of the old hell, also known as her home. That was it, the straw that broke the camel's back. She had never felt close to her mother since her parents divorced and her mother married her stepfather. She, now 18 years old, had decided to run away. She was a girl who loved books that made her cry and music that was too loud. She didn't weigh much for her age, but she was small since she was little. This particular girl loved pizza and anything rock n' roll. She liked bands with a more independent vibe. Although she was a bright and intelligent girl, she lacked good social skills and was generally very shy. She was born and raised in Asheville, North Carolina and has always been different from other girls since the day she was born. She felt childish for leaving but she was out of options. It was too much. She didn't own a car or a bike. But she had her feet and a drawstring bag. As she ran out of her big caged house, down her street of houses similar to hers, all with their own struggles locked in a dollhouse like simplicity, her enormous spotted dog jumped out. about the fact that she forced her to the ground as if to say, “Don’t leave me.” But she left. And the depressed dog came back into the house, whining and crying like a child. She walked for what seemed like hours, on a road that would lead her nowhere. She examined the world around her, seeming brighter and more vibrant and she felt freedom blowing through her hair. And she was happy. Few cars passed by and none recognized the young girl, or as she felt, the young woman. After what seemed like many more hours, a rusty old Volkswagen passed her. She looked out the window and saw a handsome young man covered in tattoos and dreads longer than his own hair. He continued to drive... middle of paper ...... use of loss of oxygen but it was, in fact, a matter of confusion, fear and a broken heart. And on his tombstone was written “Anonymous”. and that was what she was. And the young bipolar schizophrenic was never seen again by the workers of the hospital which was in reality a psychiatric establishment, nor by her invented friends and her mother who died at her birth, nor by her nonexistent stepfather or by her real father who left before she was born or by the stray dog ​​who followed her everywhere in 2nd grade and got run over in 3rd grade. And the boy, who she thought she loved, with flawless, unmarked skin, placed his little purple torn drawstring bag on her grave, being the only known thing she owned, other than the clothes on her body, which ultimately blown away with the life of the nameless girl that no one loved or understood. And she was happy.