Hope Came With Wings

The cold Ohio wind whips around face, I pull my hood down farther. I don't get why it's so cold if it's suppose to be spring by now. It's still lightly sprinkling when I reach the end of my driveway. I stop there, looking up at my house.

Home. It's suppose to be comforting. A place filled with warmth and plenty of people to be around. Of course, the same could be said for Hell.
And that's what it's like. No love and fluffiness, just people, mostly me and my mom, and a stale, overly warm air kicking out of the dusty vents.
Comforting, isn't it?

I take in a deep breath and trudge up to the front door. I let myself in, it's not locked. She leaves it open so her dealers can slip in and out. I walk down the oh-too-familiar hallway to find her right where I left her on the couch.

"Hi Mom." I don't much look at her, it's haunting to see her frail body surrounded by whatever drugs she had that day, cowering in the cushions of the couch, off in some kind of stupor.
She doesn't acknowledge me, not that I expected her to. I grab a coke from the fridge and walk off to my room. My lair, as I like to call it.

My dark green walls are covered in posters and drawings, things that I like looking at. I use to have tons of pictures in one corner, but I took them all down when I figured it wasn't worth holding onto the memories.
I plug in my ipod to my stereo system, Blessthefall's "I Wouldn't Quit If Everyone Quit" blasting from the speakers. Well, almost. I keep it turned down to avoid confrontation from mom.

I turn to the mirror. My straight, dark brown hair is messy from the wind outside. I take a brush to it, slowly combing out the tangles. It doesn't work well, so I give up. I notice how my black eyeliner is smudged around my green eyes, but I don't care. It doesn't look to bad. I never really got why I bother trying to look good. Not like anyone's looking. I think it just gives me something else to focus on.

Mills gave us homework. It's just to write a free verse, it will be easy. I drag my almost empty school bag to my bed. I grab a pen and my journal and lay on my stomach, journal in front of me, and start writing. I have to be careful what I write about for school, teachers talk. Write anything too depressing and you immediatley find yourself in the school psychiatrist. Mills thinks I have talent, but it's still part of her job to turn me in if she has to.

It doesn't take me long to find something to write about. I've been on the same topic for a while. The ink touches the paper, and my heart pours out. I only hope my words are good enough.