The gray and dreary weather threatens to suffocate me as I take the bus home from school one afternoon. Looking around me, I notice how this weather can make even the most beautiful things, like the trees and the sky, seem so dull. As I walk up the front porch steps to my house, I hear the all too familiar sound of muffled, angry voices attacking each other. Sighing to myself, I push open the door and pray that I can make it to my room unnoticed. With two more steps to go, a strong hand yanks me backwards, and I gasp. Similar to yesterday, the day before that, and the day before that, I accept that is not going to end well.
Bloody and aching all over, I return to my room two hours later. When I’m washing the blood off of my arms and legs in the bathtub, my mind wanders to a happier time: when my parents still loved each other, when my parents loved me, and when my parents did not abuse me. I miss the time when I would come home from school smelling the chocolate chip cookies in the oven and hearing my mom sweetly ask me how school went that day. I miss the sight of my mom and dad reading by the fire every evening together. But now, these thoughts, that I so desperately cling on to, sometimes slip away. Instead, all I hear is how fat I am, how ugly I am, and how unworthy of love I am. I think they hurt me because, as I grew up, they became ashamed of me, and they are frustrated because they created someone like me. My life is a mess, and I have no one to count on. I am broken. I can’t be fixed. I’m not worth fixing. 
The next morning, the bright San Francisco sun is shining down on me from high above my head, as though it was trying to cheer me up. Nonetheless, I walk to the bus stop with my head down. It is a struggle to cover up my scars every day I go to school, but even if I was close to death, I would still drag myself to school. School is my escape. It is the only place I feel safe and free from my parents. 
At lunch time, the principal quiets us all down and asks us to give her our undivided attention. I can see my fellow classmates’ faces drop as the principal utters the words that change my life forever:
“There has been an earthquake. A severe one. It happened about 20 minutes ago, and it has destroyed one whole neighborhood a bit south from our school. It has come to my attention that some of our own students live in that neighborhood. If any of you have suffered any losses due to this incident, I am gravely sorry. Come and see me, and we will see what needs to be done in order to ensure your safety and care.”
My head is spinning. In the pit of my stomach, I have a sinking feeling because I just know that it was my neighborhood. Although my parents have stopped loving me, I never stopped loving them. Yes, they hurt me and verbally attack me. Yes, they leave permanent marks on my skin that last for weeks. Yes, they make me feel as though I am worthless. But, they are still my parents. They are still the people who baked cookies for me and read books together. I still love them. They are the only thing I can call home. If the earthquake killed them, I may lose the little sanity I have left.
I bolt out of the cafeteria, and knowing that there won’t be a bus at this time of day, I run home. After about 2 hours, I reach what used to be my neighborhood. There are sirens blaring and rescue teams trying to find anyone who might still be alive underneath the rubble. I make my way to the pile of bricks I used to call home, and in my peripheral vision, I see two bodies on two stretchers side by side. I know right then and there, that those bodies used to hold the souls of my parents. The people who brought me into the world, but who aren’t going to see me leave it. They’re gone. I don’t know what to do.
I sit in the remnants of my room, and I realize that my life is going to completely change. Although I have hung on to the good memories I have of my parents for a long time, I think this may be time to let it all go. The good and the bad. How can I move on with my life if I am holding on to what used to be? Maybe this is all for the best. Maybe my parents died for a reason. Maybe I am better off without my parents. I don’t know what else to do except believe that there is some greater purpose for my life that I just cannot see right now.
After sitting by myself for a long time, I make up my mind that it is time to let go. I get up and go to the paramedics who are taking care of all the children who lost their families and homes in the earthquake. Looking up, I see the sun shining down on me. And for the first time since my parents started hurting me, I feel hope.

~~~~ Two Years Later ~~~~

“Isabelle, it’s your turn to read your story aloud,” says my teacher Ms. Baker.
I gather my story together and walk up to the front of the classroom. Before I begin reading, I take a moment to glance at all the faces that are staring back up at me. Each of these people are now my best friends. We all share something in common: we are victims of the earthquake that struck our neighborhood two years and took our whole lives with it. Although back then I only saw the incident as a true catastrophe, now, I look at upon it with a smile. Yes, I miss my parents, but I wouldn’t trade my life as it is today for anything in the world. I feel safe, happy, and loved, something that was virtually unheard of when I was living with my parents. After the earthquake, one of the teachers at my old school started a new school for the victims of the earthquake in our boarding shelter. So, for the past couple of years, I have been in heaven on earth. I love the shelter I live in with my new family: the kids from my old neighborhood and Ms. Baker.
Then, I glance down at my pieces of paper where the story of my life is scribbled down, and begin. As I read, I explain the struggles I faced before the earthquake whilst living with my parents, that until this day, nobody had known. I talk about my scars, my pain, and my nonexistent self-esteem. But, after that, I speak of my life after the earthquake. The chance I got to rebuild my life while being surrounded by people who loved me and cared about my wellbeing. I reveal the times late at night when I miss my parents so much that I feel as though I can’t breathe. But I know deep down, that I am better now. My life is more beautiful now than it has ever been. But more than anything else, I am happy now…truly happy.