My father jumped off the roof when I was a year and six weeks old.
After that, my mother started coming home later, and later, until one day, when I was 5 and a half, she never returned at all.
And that, is where my story begins.
It was a tiny wood house, near the forest of Edgeville. I wasn't sure why we lived there, none of us liked it, but it was fun to run in the woods. That's what my brother, Warren, and I did all day long.
We'd run through the dense trees, and pick raw fruit and eat, eat until our bellies and we couldn't move. We painted our faces with the thick, rich mud that appeared after a heavy rain, and we'd play savages and swing from thick green vines, our feet slapping the rough trees and bleeding hot crimson.
During the nights, we'd trapse back to the house, and crawl in our mother's bed.
"When'll she be back?" I'd ask Warren, pressing my face against his shoulder blade.
"Dunno, Lan," he'd reply, sighing.
I thought Warren would know everything. He was older than me, two years older, and was more than a big brother, he was a savior, a hero.
Our simple existence continued like this for about a week. Then, someone word got out about the little McKinley kids living alone, and Grandma came for me, whilst our Uncle came for Warren.
Grandma's life was much different from what I was used to.