I don’t know what it’s like to live a day without hearing someone yelling at someone else. It’s been so long that I don’t even know what it’s like to not hear yelling. Though it bothers me, I’ve grown accustomed to it. I’ve learned to not listen to them anymore.

I dreaded going home every day. I was always welcomed, if that’s what you call it, with the yelling, screaming, and arguing of my parents. Today was no different. I was taking my time walking home, kicking at the pebbles and sand beneath my feet. The dust landed on my shoes and left the surface dirty. I let out a breath and continued walking, making a mental note to clean my shoes when I get home.

I adjusted the backpack straps that were digging into my skin. The heavy load of books on my back was a nuisance, and I wanted nothing more than to throw them into the lake near the park. But I couldn’t. My parents had paid for them, along with my shoes, and basically everything else I own.

The unpaved road I took through the park ended and changed into concrete instead. I had memorized this path home. It was the longest one from the school to my house. The quiet and calming atmosphere of the park was now ruined. You could hear the cars, the noises, and the smell of gas. It was a horrible jerk back to reality.

I used to sit and think about what it was like before humans took over the animals’ land and turned it into a center in which people sit, stand, sleep, eat, and talk. That’s basically all they do. My brother always asked me why I thin