My name is Alina. I’m fourteen years old. I live in the street of New York city as a homeless person. I am not alone by the way. I stay with my younger brother Franklin. He is eight years old and he is sick, he suffers from an illness that they called autism. It is very cold now as winter will arrive soon. We move from place to place around the city to find a better place. I am really worry about my little brother’s health. He cries in his sleep and sometimes he walks on his own at night when I’m sleeping peacefully, only to find out he was gone the next day. But God hears my prayers and I usually found Franklin within hours.
We’re hungry. We always do. I have to keep Franklin next to me where ever I go. We waited in the back of the restaurant for food, we pick up all the left overs that still looks good and happily eats them. I do not have to worry about water. I can get them from the restroom. Yes, I also bath in the restroom to make sure we’re at least not that dirty. Sometimes people don’t understand our situation. I once asked for money from random people around the city to raise fund for my brother’s medication. I’m afraid of losing him and I don’t know what to do with my life if he’s not around anymore. He is my companion, he is my play mate and he is my dearest little brother. I love him very very much.
There is more to this story. How we ended up living in the street. We once lived in a happy family, until one day bad things destroyed my future, my brother and my entire family. My father, he was an alcoholic. He became mad after his business went bankrupt. He came back home late and involved with drugs. I don’t know what was happening at that time. My mother and father always fight each other. Things were thrown and cracked, how much loss it was uncountable. My mother was abused many times, until that very fateful night, my mother asked me to leave the house. She was crying, I don’t understand, I was crying too and asked won’t she go with me. The only thing she said to me was that she can’t.
From the distance I heard my father yelling for my mother’s name. He was very angry. Mother told me to hide in the kitchen inside the cupboard, I was carrying my little brother, we was just a baby at that time. I quickly did what I was told. I heard them fight shouting and yelling, words after words, furniture crashing, it was very loud. Then “BANG!”
A gun shot was heard. I was startled. Things went quiet. No more screaming and no more yelling. I heard father cursing and crying and slamming the front door leaving the house. I went out from my hiding place. Franklin was still sleeping soundly. I slowly walked to the living room to find my mother. I saw her. She was lying frozen on the floor. She was dead, shot at point blank.
But she was not answering. Only then I realised the red liquid oozing out from her chest. Blood.
I hated my father. I cursed him to my very death. But that was the last time I’ve ever see him. Soon, police siren was heard, I quickly ran away through the back door and into the wood. Still, there is more to this story . . .