by I.

She walked aimlessly through the busy crowds.

"Where should I go?" 

"Who should I turn to?"

These are the thoughts that had been running in her mind ever since she left home.

"Home?" She muttered this word under her breath, and stopped in her pace.

She felt a sudden familiar 'pang' in her stomach. She feels warm, yet empty. 

To her, home is a place that should make her feels, well, at home; comfortable, safe and sound . But that's impossible for her; 

   Not with a parent who's busy working.

   And a mentally-disabled elder brother.

They can't possibly understand her struggles and her emptiness. 

Her problem of fighting someone whom she trusted whole-heartedly, who in the end, molested her.

Her cheeks feel hot suddenly but she continued her aimless journey anyway; half-walking, half-running, thinking how unfair this world had been to her. She didnt know what's she's running from, but it makes her feel less afraid.She's not going to her appointment with her psychiatrist. Not today. Nor tomorrow. Or the day after. Not after what he did to her.

She then entered a dark, narrow alley and took out her half-empty anti-depressant pills. Half of the content has been flushed down the toilet. She hates pills. 

But she hates life even more. 

As she popped open the bottle, a graffiti on the wall caught her attention.

"SOMETIMES, A HOME ISN'T 4 WALLS; IT'S 2 EYES, AND A HEARTBEAT."

It hits her like a sudden revelation.

She hugs herself tightly in the cold winter and whisper silently; 

"I am home."

(Maybe, this world isn't half bad at all).