The white puffs of mist that came from my thin lips indicated how cold and unforgiving the freezing night was. The wintry hands and dry tongue of cold enveloped me in their essence, death grips while licking every inch of warmth from my insides. Despite the five layers of clothing and fur boots I wore, the chattering of my teeth was incessant and my fingers were so numb they might as well have been nonexistent. My lips were cracked, matching my burning throat that felt like it was going to shatter into a million pieces from frostbite. As I fought against Fate's cruel attempt to steal my consciousness, flashbacks of events I would rather forget invaded my mind - wrongdoings that I had greatly mourned during my life on this unforgiving Earth. Say no to plagiarism. Get a tailor-made essay on “Why Violent Video Games Should Not Be Banned”? Get the original essay The year my family collapsed and burned to the ground – a year like any other. I think my siblings and I always knew something was wrong, but we chose to ignore the fact that our parents were constantly bickering about small, absurd things that they should have worked out together: the attitude of their children, our financial situation. My father had just lost his job as well as his pride in being a proud businessman in a company he had worked for for 15 years. He began to shirk his responsibilities as a father, choosing to go on trips with his friends rather than being there for his wife and children during our difficult times. I've never been a very rude person, but I couldn't take it anymore. Openly admitting to my so-called “father” that I absolutely despised him, it was the first and only time he raised his hand to me. Remorse and guilt were then completely out of the equation. I became more problematic and stirred up trouble with stupid shenanigans just to add more fuel to the raging fire. My mother was blamed for my transformation into a crude individual, as everyone ignored the fact that I was a teenager with raging hormones that would put a sandstorm to shame. I heard him sobbing frantically every night behind closed doors, and it was the first time I realized that sorry seems to be the hardest word to say. The moment when I broadcast the photo of my dear best friend and his equally cordial lover. I was sure that somewhere in my cold, dead heart was a small glimmer of anguish for the boy and the couple of boys, but it never manifested itself in my emotions. There was nothing wrong with being in love, but I saw red at the thought of someone I cared about having something I couldn't. Our coalition had been destroyed along with his relationship. I had ruined the life of my beloved accomplice, the one who had maintained my obnoxious attitude for years; just because I felt homophobic for a day. People started to bully him. I was one of them. I didn't hate him. I didn't feel anything towards him one way or the other. For me, he was a tool with which to express my frustrations, have fun and feel superior. When I teased him, I felt a rush of power that I just couldn't find any other way. I really thought it was just nature: the strong versus the weak, and if anywhere in this concrete hell is still a jungle, it was the schoolyard. But every time he looked at me with those beautiful orbs stained with a disappointed glow, I.