I was always on the outside, looking in. It all began when my parents passed away in a car accident when I was 14. Days after the accident, I remember constantly thinking to myself, "Why not me?. Why was I chosen to survive, to somehow continue on in this harsh, cruel world all by myself? I don't remember the accident itself ever occuring, but I do remember the few moments right before a truck going the wrong slammed head on into our car.

My last words to them were, "I wish I wasn't your daughter!". 

Everytime I think about how those words came out of my mouth, my heart feels like it's about to rip into a million pieces, into shards of glass that tear at every inch of my body. I remember the last look in my mom's eyes; it was a look of pain and sorrow. We were on our way home from an audition that I had just failed; my guitar string snapping as I played the first chord. I was too flustered to even open my mouth, and I was told to leave the room. I was told to be "a waste of time". 

I had envied the other teenagers in the audition room; at least one family member surrounded each person. Then there was me, all alone, holding my guitar that was much too big for my size. Those who didn't make it received a sympathetic pat on their back, "There's always next time, honey". I was a different story. I remember walking to the car, my feet shuffling against the hard pavement. My guitar felt heavier than usual, and so did my heart. As I cramped into the car and we drove off, the only words that my dad could mutter were, "I told you so." I glanced over, and my mom was already looking up places where we could sell my guitar. 

My last few moments with my parents were of complete silence. A tense atmosphere filled the car, and the radio was too quiet to hear. These last moments that I should've cherished, but instead I dreaded. 

I remember waking up in the hospital, with several tubes attached to me in all sorts of places. I could hear the steady beeping of my heart rate on the monitor next to me. Once the doctor saw that I had finally woken up, he walked toward me with that gaze I was all too familar with. 

"Unfortunately, neither of your parents made it. I'm so sorry for your loss," but I knew he really wasn't. He glanced at me for a couple more seconds, and flipped to the next page on his clipboard. 

I was too shocked to cry, speak, or respond in any sort of way to the news of my parents' death. Two days later, I was ready to leave the hospital. My aunt came to take me home, and she offered to take me in, but I refused. We both knew that she didn't actually want to take me in, and I was okay with that. My aunt was the type of person that would come to rescue in front of others, but you needed something from her on a more personal level, she was never there. I stayed with her for two more days, before I finally decided to go back home. 

Home lasted for one more week, before our bank put our house up for foreclosure. You see, my parents left a heavy amount of debt behind. By taking all of our posesssions, the debt was mostly cleared up, and I didn't have to worry about the rest because as I was underage without a steady income, there was no way they could've expected me to get the money. 

The police had retrieved my guitar from the trunk of the car earlier. Thankfully, it was fine besides for a couple of scratches and small dent on the side. I was offically an orphan. The thought finally hit me when I realized I had no where to go, nobody to turn to, and nothing to do. School appeared in my thoughts for a slight moment, but then the thought of me being an orphan finally settled in, and I had a very bad emotional breakdown in the middle of the road.

Of course, a crowd had gathered to see what was wrong with me.

What was wrong with me? I guess you could say, well, everything was wrong. My face streaming in tears, I was unable to respond to any of the people. I was unable to grasp their faces, worried glances and frowns. All I can remember is that I clutched my guitar as tightly as I could, closed my eyes, and let the tears and screams go. 

Eventually, everybody left.

Just like they always did.

And I became that hysterical girl that sat on the street corner everyday, either crying or simply emotionless. People actually started leaving food for me, as I realized one day when I woke up with a carton of milk and a small sandwich besides me. I hadn't looked in the mirror for a while, but I'm sure my appearance was horrifying. This became a routine however. Every morning, a new carton of milk and a new sandwich. I even found a sticky note on the sandwich one time that read, "it gets better." So maybe being homeless wasn't so bad. I actually kind of liked being on that street corner. It gave me a view of the entire city around me, and I spent most of my free time watching the people walk past me. I observed their every move, every glance, every smile, every frown, everything. I often wondered, out of all these people, how many of them were orphans just like me? Would I ever be able to move on with life like them? I soon became attached to this street corner. I would occasionally get up and walk around for a while, but I always came to that same street corner.

That same street corner, is where it all began.