I ran away when I was fifteen and a half years old. My father died when I was five which triggered my mother’s alcohol addiction. My mother had passed out on the couch with a vodka bottle in her hand and the TV up loudly. This was my chance; I grabbed a duffel bag and packed my favorite clothes, a toothbrush, and my high-top converse as I was wearing slippers. Walking over to the dresser, I picked up the picture of me and my dad, smiled, and tucked it away in the bag. I slipped my bundle of belongings over my shoulder and hopped out my window. Our house has two stories and I was on the first floor while mother was on the second. Running as fast as I could, I headed to the park, a good mile from my home. It hit me like a brick wall. It’s winter! How I forgot, I am still not sure. It was the middle of December, snowing heavily at that time. I couldn’t go back now, it would be giving up and I was way too stubborn for that. I trudged through the thick abundance of white, shimmering snow; the moon my only companion. Half way to the park the wind started picking up, causing me to shiver profusely. My cheery, yellow slippers had transformed into a dreary grayish brown from the mushy snow. My perseverance came from the thought that if I just kept walking, I would be untraceable and no one would be able to find me. As I continued making my way to the park the temperature continued to drop sporadically. Almost biting my tongue off was the consequence of going out this late. My steps got slower and I felt lethargic. Next thing I knew I was in a man’s car….