Escaped the old hell, also known as his home. This was 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 liked books that made her cry and music that was too loud. She didn't weigh much for her age, but she had been petite ever since she was little. This particular girl liked pizza and anything rock n' roll. She liked bands with a more indie feel. Although she was an intelligent and bright girl, she lacked good social skills and was usually 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. He felt childish leaving but had no options left. It was all too much. He owned neither a car nor a bicycle. But she had her feet and a drawstring bag. As she ran out of her large caged house, down the street of houses similar to hers, all with their difficulties locked in a dollhouse like simplicity, her huge spotted dog jumped on her forcing her to the ground as if said, "Don't leave me." But she's gone. And the depressed dog ran back into the house whining and crying like a baby. She walked for what seemed like hours, on a road that would take her nowhere. She surveyed the world around her as it seemed brighter and more vibrant and felt freedom blow through her hair. And he was happy. A few cars passed, none of which recognized the young girl, or as she felt, the young woman. After what seemed like several more hours, a rusty old Volkswagen passed her. He looked in the window and saw an attractive young man covered in tattoos and dreads longer than his hair. He continued to drive… middle of paper… due to loss of oxygen but, in reality, it was due to confusion, fear and a broken heart. And on his tombstone it said: "Anonymous". and that's what it was. And the young bipolar schizophrenic was never seen again by the workers of the hospital which was in reality a psychiatric facility, or by her false friends and by the mother who died at her birth or by the non-existent stepfather or by the real father who she had left before she was born or from the stray dog ​​that followed her everywhere in 2nd grade and was run over in 3rd grade. And the boy, who she thought she loved, with flawless, unmarked skin, placed her little torn purple drawstring bag on her grave, it being the only known thing she owned other than the clothes on her body, which at the eventually swept away along with the life of the young, nameless girl whom no one loved or understood. And he was happy.