Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters; they are the creations of a much imaginative, higher being?

I couldn't do anything to help them; I didn't know what was going on my self. It was all too fast, too fast. I'm a fugitive, the news says. A fugitive! They think that I killed them for whatever reason they could think of. If they even knew; if they even knew what I saw. I could try and tell them, turn myself in so they can hear me out, but I'm thinking they wouldn't want to listen to a teenager. They think they got their man: a depressed, out of control kid who decided to murder his family.

I am depressed at times.

I can be out of control.

But I am not a murderer.

You never knew what you had until you lost it. At least, it's something like that. I'm not one for remembering quotes said by philosophical dead guys. At least I think they're dead, how can I know if I don't even know who said it?

Why am I thinking about this?

I turn my thoughts to my step-dad. I never really called him anything related to being my father, only his name. Now, I think he deserves the title. There were all those times I thought he was a prick, but he was the one who saved my life. I never thought he cared, but he did care enough to look dead in the eyes and tell me to run.

I turn my thoughts to my mom. I think about all the times I made her worry, brought her pain, and said I hate you. Oh God, I wish she was here right now and holding me so close and telling me everything will be okay.

I wish that I will awake from this really, really bad nightmare. I don't. She's gone. And I have no one. The feeling sinks in and I feel so alone. There's a difference from being lonely and being alone. I know that now. There is no one. My real dad is in jail after all.

I wish he was here now…

I want to cry, and I do for the millionth time today. I wonder how I can so much, you'd think I would have cried them all out, but no. I crouch in an alleyway. There are a few bums standing around a fire pit, holding their hands out to the flames to gather some warmth. Only now I begin to acknowledge how hungry I am. I pull my knees into my chest. I feel so small. I feel so weak. I want to die, but there is just a small spark of hope left in me. It's a cinder, one last glowing coal that will keep me fuelled and going.

I didn't do it.

I think about those men that did though and I grit my teeth and stare up at the flames. ou can tell by their arrogance, way they walk, how they dress, that they aren't the normal hit man. I watch a lot of movies, I guess. They guys are big timers. They don't stop until the job is done. They are another reason I have to keep on the down low. If they know where I am; they will come and kill me. I don't know how long I can outrun them and the cops.

But I have the proof; I really do. And then when they fall, and they will, I'll be glad to watch them burn in Hell for what they have done.