I walk home, the gold strewn path breaking, crunching below my feet. Somewhere above, a lone bird sings, cutting the crisp air with its crackles.
My school bag is very heavy, but definitely not heavier than my heart.

I do not want to go home, I wish this path would lead me to the place they call heaven.

For home is hell. My step mother awaits behind that door, a cane in hand. 

She will find another reason to beat me. I am not perfect, but I try to be. At nights, when the pain of the scars keep me awake and I pat them to sleep, I wonder when the cane will disappear from my life. And her. The monster.

My father is always drunk, too drunk to notice my black eye, my bruises.

The path is ending, I see the broken wall behind which is my broken home.

Maybe I should retrace my path, back to school, beyond it, into the green fields, beyond the green fields to the next town, to the town beyond it. Where there wont be anyone waiting for me. 

And so, I stop. And turn. And retrace my steps. I am running away from hell. 

And I hope the golden path leads me to a different hell, if not heaven.

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