It was already almost time to leave. Time to pack up and move on with my life. As I slowly walked out of my parents house no goodbyes and no hugs were exchanged. All I received was an inaudible grunt when I told them I was leaving. My friend of eight years, Ryan, was waiting outside for me. He's Hispanic, about 5'10 built averagely with black hair. I loaded my belongings into the back of his old beat up blue 85 Toyota Camry. As he pulled out and started to drive away, I was lost in my own thoughts wondering if I was ever going to see my family again.
"So what happened?" he asked. I explained to him about the fights, the anger and hatred that my family shared with each other. "A unsatisfying home life, we all had that," he said with a grin. "Do you want to come and chill at my house till you get your feet on the ground?" I answered with a nod.
We drove the rest of the way in silence, with me finally realizing the daunting task of living on my own at the age of sixteen.
When he pulled into his driveway, I noticed the tell-tell signs of a flophouse, broken cars, and all kinds of garbage in the yard. Things that I have seen too much of in my short life and I wished I would never see again. When I walked in, right then and there I contemplated whether or not to stay or walk out. I knew exactly what was going on, drugs. Something I promised myself I would walk away from two years ago. It was a 2 bedroom house, the first room was connected with a kitchen, I could tell this is were the...