The day that I knew we were leaving was a colorful blur, filled with raised voices and rising tempers. There were big, empty boxes littered on the floor, waiting to be filled with the possessions that my family had. I only remember seeing my parents burst out the front door to the car, leaving me alone in the big, empty house. I remember seeing the papers lying in bedlam on the kitchen table, knowing that everything was official. Knowing that my life, my entire life, was about to change.

I remember bursting through the screen door, my hair tangled, my eyes wild. I couldn’t tolerate the stress and the tension anymore. The sky outside matched my mood exactly: it was stormy, dark, and swirled with black clouds. The trees bent under the weight of the wind, which was howling like a phantom against the leaves. There was a heavy rain falling, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything anymore. I pushed open the door, and ran.

I remember tripping over a bit of rock, and falling hard to the pavement. There was a dull pain that throbbed in my ankle, but I pushed on. The pain became a throbbing beat in my ear, thump thump thump thump, as I scrambled to my feet, shaking the sheets of rain out of my eyes. I ran, and ran, until I came to the forests that I’d known the entire eight years of my life. The ones that I knew and cherished. The ones that had witnessed my pain, my happiness, and my sorrow.

I stopped running, and leaned against the rough bark of a birch tree. My heart pounded deep in my chest, and I looked up into the rich green leaves of the tree. Everything was quiet. A deep, earthly, quiet. I could feel a calmness crawling into my body, diminishing and soothing my anger and fear. I was a wreck: tired, dirty, and injured. My pain from my ankle became too hard to ignore, and I knew I needed to get help.
I knew I needed to go home.

I also knew that I had no home anymore.