Its fiery red, yet a calming tone of yellow. It still has its tones of withering away green that will soon be forced to change, then die like everything else. It is the only thing in my life that gives me peace; the only thing that gives me hope. 

They yell all the time.  Our house is just one war after the other.  One day they will split; one day I will have to choose; I will be forced to decide.  All I want is peace; some people want money, some people want unattainable objects, such as famous people; I want peace.  He hits her.  Never while I'm around, but I understand when I hear the smack of his palm against the flab of her cheek and the thump of her hitting the ground and her almost silent sobs.  It feels like knife stabs right in the heart.  I should protect her; I should save her from his cold-hearted soul.  I would choose her only to care for her.  I would choose him just so he wouldn't be furious at us both. 

It's practically my home; I come home and I can't help but lay under its warm, vibrant leaves, laying on the soft grass coated with crunchy, dead, long-gone leaves.  Every leaf falls; a single second takes the leaves, one by one.  He tells me that I should talk more; that regular nine-year-old boys play games and have conversations.  The difference between me and them is they're happy; I'm not. 

When I ask her why they fight all the time, her response is, of course, denying anything and everything I say.  One day, when I come home from school, they were yelling about doing what I fear the most--separation.  I'll be forced to choose my fate.  I wish, I pray, they will just get along so I can find any piece of happiness is when I'm by the tree, which is slowly dying.  If I wanted to,  I could count all of the leaves with their green-to-yellow-to-brown tints.  It's not right--it just isn't--forcing a 9-year-old boy to choose.  I'll have to go to court while under pressure already upset enough that my two caregivers are leaving each other after they swore they would love each other in sickness, and in health, forever and always.  Now they don't and it's most likely better for them, but not for me. 

I walk into my parent's bathroom and notice the abundance of pills on the counter.  My mind drifts to the tree in the front yard; all the leaves becoming brown and withering away.  I grab each bottle, take one of each pill and put them in my hand.  I raise my full hand to my mouth.  This is it.  I can free myself.  Escape.  All I need to do is . . . no! . . . I'm not even ten-years-old yet!  I almost took action to kill myself!  I walk out of my house.  I can't be here right now.

  I look at the tree, exactly 23 leaves remain, mostly brown.  I lay under it on the dead, crunchy leaves.  I hope for inspiration, for an epiphany that will change me--hopefully for the better--hopefully forever.  I need an idea; a thought that will keep me going.  I can hear him fighting with her, something about food or meals or something.  If, when, they separate, I will choose somebody, but who?  What if I didn't have to decide?  What if I could have two families?  That would be new having different rooms, different lives; I could escape myself and become somebody new--a new and improved me.  For the little time remaining, I will just sit here waiting for it; my life to reset.  You never know what life could throw at you.  If trees don't die when their leaves--their beauty--does, then why do I have to?  I don't.