• He's dead. Gone. Like a moment of silence. Here. Then gone.
    She's alive. Yet dead. She doesn't feel the same. Or look it.
    I'm alive. Yet my soul is part of the Nothing.
    We are all dead.
    I WANT TO LIVE! I WANT TO BREATHE! I WANT TO RUN OUTSIDE AND SHRIEK FOR JOY, FOR I WOULD SEE MY FATHER! WHAT DID I EVER DO?!? I TRY TO TO GOOD. IT'S NOT MY FAULT! WHY ME?!?!?!?!
    I want to be like the others, whose worst problems are boys, or makeup. But no. My problems have to do with terrorists. My dad died in 2001, in the terrorist attacks in 9/11. He died trying to save someone. This was just a few days after I started kindergarten. I was shy, but pretty happy and bright. I loved my teacher, my classroom, and my classmates. But when the bus to bring me back home went to my bus stop, my mom wasn't there. They brought me back to the school, then came back. I wasn't to worried. My mom worked at school. There must have been a meeting or something. The bus came back to my stop, and there was me, happy as can be. Then there was my mom, with tears streaming down her face. I was scared. "What is it, Mommy?" "It's your father. He's missing."
    A week later was my birthday. Noshow on my dad's part. November. Still not home. December 1st. Dad's birthday. Not there. Christmas. Still not home. A couple days after Christmas, police came to the house. "Madam, we regret to inform you..." That's it. He died. The found his body Christmas eve. Now, I have come to loathe that holiday with all my heart.