When I was eight years old, I met Agatha Drakos for the first time. I remember sitting on the stairwell with my brother, staring at this newfound stranger, with such curious, youthful eyes. I remember catching her eye, and seeing her kind smile for the first time. I was not the type of child who anyone would smile at for no reason. I was quite intellectual for my age, yes, but I wasn’t one to be described as “adorable” or “cute”, much like my cousin Maggie. I was an awkward kid with messy hair and boyish clothes. I had an alter ego and I was never considered to be the “friendliest” kid on the block. I wasn’t the type to be used to such conventional ways, and still, I remember how Mrs. Drakos’ sudden smile made me feel protected for the…show more content… Everything's ironic in that sense, I suppose. We're here one day and the next, we're not. People are watering everything down and are sugarcoating it into something beyond recognizable. Small fables are becoming dangerous lies and honesty is becoming sacred. I fear for the lives of the future and can only hope that they are just that - fears alone. Goodness knows how worried sick, I am; But then again, I'm really not. Times are changing and I don't truly have a solid opinion.
My father hasn’t been the same since my mother had died. By day he is a working businessman, and by night, a widowed alcoholic drowning in his own sadness. I still miss her, and I wonder if, that is a crime on its own. I miss her whenever I remember how much I would prefer her alive, even if she never spoke to me again. It’s not hard to remember either; I remember her death whenever I hear glass breaking downstairs or see my father half-dead himself, on the couch; and when that happens, I try to go to sleep, and forget that little feeling in the pit of my stomach, that just screams at me, this is not
