the storm is passing over.

I ran away. Away from everything that they told me to think. I had been trapped in the coldness, and ran away from it. My father was that trap.
He was very "forceful" my mother would say and "evil" as my older brother would say. My father killed my mother, punched her
and kicked her untill something happened. We left before the police came. My brother, who was 8 then and me 5, took me and ran.
I was totally unaware of what he was doing and why, but I went along with it because, well, he was my brother. I loved him more than anything
else. My brother was my savior, my everything. He saved me. He got a job as a child writer, for my brother was always a good writer.
He soon published his first novel, a novel about our story. And the public ate it up. I thought this was all stupid, that everyone
was joking us, but maybe life wanted to treat us better now. Maybe everything was going to be good. My brother soon got money, and
we finally had a house, not a friend's house or a warm place on the side of the street. I grew up with a second look on everything,
and I had always been the loner everyone only took one chance to be friends with. We had lived in a small town in LA County for
most of our life, then, my brother had a book deal and we moved to New York. This is where my story begins.