I’ve been told a lot of things in my life. And I’ve always honored what my family taught me. I listened, I tried, I didn’t give up.

It sounds stupid honestly. What boy my age ever listens to his parents? I’m supposed to sneak out my window to meet a girl I don’t even like. I’m supposed to yell at my parents, tell them I don’t love them, I don’t need them. I’m supposed to slam my bedroom door and feel that little tinlging urge to grab a bag, throw clothes into it and run.

But here I am. Sitting at the kitchen table, with a few photos spread out in front of me. Memories of my family. The one that always seems to grab my attention is the one I’ve been starring at for hours.

My father took it on our camping trip. I was so young I don’t even remember most of it. Yet, I remember this. I can hear our laughter echoing through that dark night.

Our smiles are so bright they seem to glow brighter than the orange flames dancing before our eyes. Mom is holding me on her lap, her brown eyes smiling down at me like I’m something that is about to disappear.

My older brother Tommy, who was two at the time, is up front with Dad, who’s holding the camera out a sliver of his arm is visable in the corner of the photo.

Mom and I are kind of like the background of the family. Always more quiet, more reserved, at least that’s what Mom used to tell me. Before she and Dad climbed into our old silver car and were killed.

Tears gather in my eyes as I slide the photo off the table, holding the white edge in my fingers.

One years ago, one years ago today. November 18. My vision blurs, making the photo fade.

I hold back my cries, my chest suddenly throbbing with that dull, aching pain. How have I lived a year without my mom and dad?

Why did they have to go? Why did he have to take them? We were a perfect family, we didn’t fight, I never wanted to leave. So why? Why did he pick to ruin us?

The sound of the front door shutting brings me back to reality. I look over my shoulder, dropping the photo on the table.

Tommy drags his feet across the hardwood floors, his blonde hair falling near the sides of his eyes.

He throws the car keys onto the counter, the jingle as they meet the cold granite.

“Hey,” I mumble as Tommy stumbles over to me. I can see the purple lines under his pale brown eyes. He must have been out all night.

“Hey,” Tommy sighs, falling into the chair next to me. “Sorry I’m late.”

Late? He must really be tired if he thinks he told me when he’d be home. It’s not really our style, not since Mom and Dad left.

“You’re fine,” I reassure him. “Don’t worry about me.”

Tommy lets out a tired laugh. “I always worry about you. You’re my little brother.” Tommy’s half closed eyes meet mine. “That gives me the right to worry.”

I nod slowly, looking down at my hands that are resting on the cold table. “I’m sixteen.” I tell him. “I’m not a kid anymore.”

Right after the words leave my mouth I know I’ve said the wrong thing. Tommy is just being a good, kind brother. And what did I just say? That I don’t need him, that he should stop caring about me.

Tommy stands up letting out a long sigh. “Yeah I guess you are, aren’t you.” He laughs, the sound echos through the empty halls. “But I’m the adult.”

I push back my chair and stand up. I have no idea why this is getting to me. I could care less about me being the little one to Tommy. And yet a fire is burning in my throat.

“Why are you always worrying about me?” I yell, my voice scaring Tommy as much as it scares me. “Worry about your self for once.”

Tommy scoffs throwing his hands up in the air. “Oh, I’m sorry . . . I’m just trying to be what I’m suppoed to be. You’re guardian.”

The fire burns as it crawls through my body. “No! You’re trying to be someone you’ll never be.”

Tommy’s eyes glare down at me. His galze ice cold. “It’s not my fault.” He mutters.

Now it all makes sense. Why the fire burning in my chest is so strong. Tommy is acting like someone I used to know, like Dad.

And he’s right it’s not his fault. “I’m going out.” I say, turning for the keys that are sitting in the middle of the counter.

Tommy follows behind. “Davian!” He calls. “We’re talking.”

I turn to face him, tears streaming down my cheeks. “No,” I mumble. “We’re fighting.”

Without another word I exist the house, running for the car as I wipe my tears away.

I climb into the passanger seat, starting the engine before I shut the door.

I back out of the drive way, one hand gripping the leather wheel and the other one washing away my tears.

It’s dark outside I can barely make out anything in front of me.

Until I see a bright yellow light, and hear the warning sound of horn blarring right in front of me.