I ran down the stairs, almost tripping on the few steps I skipped. The air inside my lungs felt trapped in my attempt to remain unheard, but considering the intensity of their voices, it was painfully easy. Although I had no idea where I was headed or for how long, I didn’t bother to grab anything on my way out. With every single action guided by impulse, I became unaware of my surroundings, creating scatters of bruises across my arms and legs. I immediately slammed the door behind me, completely forgetting that it was almost dark. For a moment, I could hear a ringing silence, my parents had stopped their loud accusations, but it was quickly interrupted by their shuffled footsteps. When they had finally reached the door I was too far away and afraid to yell in front of their neighbors. They remained silent in assumption that I would soon be back. When I reached the corner of my street, I stepped on a sharp rock and realized that for once in a long time, I was barefoot. My trickling blood left a short trail on the cement sidewalk, stopping after a few feet.

The yelling and fighting became a daily thing, a part of my routine, and days in which the house remained calm and silent, didn’t feel like home. But in times of unexpected silence, I lay emotionless savoring every last bit. My parents hardly ever yelled at my brother and I, keeping their arguments to themselves except for when we would rush into the kitchen to grab our frozen dinner only to find fingers pointing back to our rooms. My little brother was clueless, he didn’t mind living in his own world hidden in his toys. I, on the other hand, felt trapped in a space that deceived, a house that did not feel like home.

I wandered the streets all the time, always looking for a new place to clear my head and new inspirations for my thoughts that stayed tangled in the chaotic web of everything else in life. And in the days I mentally lost the ability to exit my room, I stared at my blank wall as I lay on the floor merging ink with paper to create my own personal haven, creating lives far more interesting than my own.

The cold air seeped through my jacket, feeling like needles tickling against my skin. I wasn’t used to walking this late, usually trapped between the walls of my room before sunset. I walked with a heavy breath, my hands shaking inside my sweater pocket. I passed by several strangers walking their pets, taking their late night jog, or like me just taking a stroll to clear the mind but as their presence drew closer to mine, I hung my head low, keeping my eyes glued to the cement, ears open and listening to the skips of their breaths, just thinking about why they were out this late. Everyday I walked the same streets, passing by the same houses and the same people. My eyes grew tired of the same view, yearning for a different muse. The only thing that grew different were the stories I made up in my mind.

The cold wind blew vigorously through my hair, forcing it in all sorts of directions across my face, but a small gap between all the mess allowed me to watch the passing cars. I thought about all the places these people were headed to or what waited for them at home. And in the thoughts that weren’t uncontrollably filled with the echoing problems I would imagine a life for these people and sometimes a life for myself.

The speed limit on the street was 15, being a cross walk for children on weekdays. But tonight, the road was empty, only being passed by a couple cars at a time. I slowly walked, counting each step in my head to pass time. There was a red car that had exceeded the speed limit, the rush of wind pushed me back a step, making me lose count at 226. I could barely see her face but her blonde hair sat messily on the top of her head in a bun. For about 20 minutes, she was all I could think about. I imagined her rushing home after an overtime shift at the hospital. There was a big crash on Highway 66, the fog had collected five cars and eight bodies. Her children, the youngest named Andrea and an older boy named Adam, lay in wake as they waited for their mother to make dinner. Andrea wouldn’t stop crying and after an entire hour of waiting for the wails to fade, Adam looked through the fridge to feed Andrea’s needs. There was leftover chicken in the corner of the bottom shelf. He wasn’t sure how long it had been there -- a week at most. He threw the pieces of chicken on a plate, forgetting to unwrap the pieces of foil that salvaged it. She got the phone call at work that the fire department was there at her home, trying to contain the fire. Her children were fine, their neighbors had heard the blaring fire alarm and immediately ran to their rescue. From then on she never left their new house without dinner ready on the table. For the rest of the hour walk, I did the same for every car that crossed my path, exaggerating to make their lives more interesting than they really are, living in their shoes for a little because somehow they fit better than my own.

I wandered until I reached a park I used to visit when I was little. I reminisced on the feeling of excitement as a child, an unknowing sense of freedom. Except today, there were no children around and the light barely grazed through the dark, grey clouds. The bright colors had dulled and the chipped paint revealed its bland surface. Writing filled the play structures, tag names of gangs and couples who have separated paths. The metal had rusted after years of abuse and for a moment I was reminded of the years that had gone by since my childish hands tainted the clean painted canvas. I sat on top of the red play structure overlooking the autumn trees surrounding the area. I dread the days I spent tediously watching time go by, waiting for life to happen. As I watched the wind sway its leaves side to side, I couldn’t help but want to dig my toes in the dirt and wrap my body around the branches of the life-filled creature. As I watched its leaves slowly descend from left to right displaying their hues of green, orange and brown, I couldn’t help but feel like the one leaf stuck on the branch, yearning for the feeling of the wind letting way beneath.

I imagined children running around, some more familiar than just a creation of my imagination. They chased each other under the slide and through the swings until one ran out of breath, a little girl about eight. She left her shoes next to her mother while she played tag. She thought it would make her run faster, believed that her shoes weighed her down. She loved the feeling of grass in between her toes, and often she would just stand there isolated letting the soles of her feet feel the earth’s warmth while the other children played. The girls behind her were catching up to her every step but she continued to run, skipping several breaths at a time. Soon enough, her body couldn’t hold and she fell to the grass, green staining her white blouse. Her parents ran to her, mother faster than the father, and the several children surrounded her. When she opened her eyes to clear her state of confusion, all she could see were blobs of bright colors coming closer. Since that day, her parents never let her visit the park, isolating her from the harmful children, and never again let her run, let alone run barefoot.

I let my toes sift through the pool of cold, wet sand. I made my way towards the left swing, which was slightly higher than the one on the right. I jumped on the swing pushing back on the ground with my feet, counting down in my head. On three, my feet gave the ground a forceful push then left. After a long minute, I took a long deep breath and closed my eyes as I rushed through the wind. I imagined the smell of trees fill my lungs, the sound of the laughing children, the suns warmth caressing my baby skin but all I could smell was the wet sand as I heard the sharpness of the wind pass through my body, only feeling numbness throughout my tattered skin. But still, as my swing dragged me back and forth through the wind, I felt a sense of freedom. Not the same, but I could imagine this is how birds felt as they flew through the sky; night and day, winter through summer, over and over again.

I fell asleep on the edge of the slide and woke up right before sunrise in a startle, almost falling off. My cold hands rubbed against my crusty eyes in an attempt to clear my vision but everything remained blurry. Each street I walked on was surprisingly empty, no people around to make stories of. I walked half asleep, my feet barely leaving the sidewalk. I enjoyed the simple silence that came with the subtle sunrise. There were no birds chirping or car engines roaring -- just the buzzing silence filling my ears and for once I could hear my own voice. I didn’t want to go back home. There was a need inside me to continue to wander but I had no money or a place to sleep, so for now I thought that dreaming would be enough to satisfy my inherent desires. My feet yearned to graze the different terrains of the earth, so tired of touching the same cement sidewalks for as long as I could remember.

When I reached my front porch, I stopped for a second to enjoy the serenity one last time. I thought twice before reaching for the handle of the door. But when I finally did, I realized my parents had left the door unlocked for me all night. Although half asleep, I forced myself to hike each step of the stairs, making sure not to skip any. I slowly crawled into my bed, appreciating its every aspect for once. I stared at the blank ceiling, wandering off into a slow and steady rest. I forced myself to stay awake for as long as my mind could because I knew that this silence wouldn’t last. In a few hours I would soon again feel at home.

Later in the afternoon, I woke to the voices of my parents serving as my alarm. I dwelled on the sense of familiarity as I stared out my window watching the cars pass by, only hoping I were to find myself one day having the same freedom. But for now, I stay hidden in my own little realm in which I could only imagine it to become a reality, blurring the screams out with my own voice.