It doesn't feel like home(Miky) I let my fingers glide along the dirty bricks of the house. I take a deep breath and try to remember when I used to live here with my parents. Pricks find their way to my finger tips. I close my eyes.

Every summer I would go to the top window of the house to get to the breeze. I would let it crawl around my neck, between my fingers and crave for it to relieve me of the heat. The sun would beat down on my face and warm my cheeks. I would stay there for hours until the sun went down. My parents would make me grilled-cheese with ham in it. I can almost taste it.

One day my parents were out. I went to the top window. It was hot with no breeze. I was craving for something cool, so I went to the park, surrounded by the cool shade of trees. I sat at the trunk of my favorite tree. I had engraved my initials in it. I slept for hours listening to people's voices. I woke up around four-thirty so I had to go home. The wind was cold, then but a burning was passing over my face. I saw black smoke in the sky. I sprinted home. There was no home to go to though. It had burnt down. The bricks my hand touches now was part of the only wall left. The fire had started when my mother burnt her hand. She rushed to the sink, turning cold water onto it. The stove lit on fire. And so did she. The fire spread upstairs blocking my fathers exits. He was soon burnt too. I looked to the rubble, tears in my eyes and wetting my cheeks. I walked through what used to be the hallway, to what used to be our kitchen. I could see the form of my mothers body but still, unrecognized by my eyes. I looked to the stove. I knew what she was making. A grilled-cheese. I let out sobs. I ran upstairs, where the smoke got thicker. I found part of my dads finger untouched by the flame.
I was dying inside. A fire fighter had to pull me out of the rubble.
I had no family. I ran away. I went to the park and climbed my tree. The tree cut my skin, it scraped my knees. I slept in that tree that night, because no one found me. I could not stop thinking of the house. A picture of my perfect house. I imagined the flame licking up the building, sloping through the same halls I learned to walk in.

I take my hand by the cooled brick. My cheeks still stained from tears. I know I will never get over it. No home I ever visit, will feel like home. This house right now, it doesn't feel like home. I can't imagine getting over this. After all, that was only yesterday.

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