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I used to read and write stories all the time when I was in seventh grade. Here’s something I wrote then. It was a short story. After the fourth chapter, I just never went back to finish it. It was about an illegal immigrant who became a prostitute and then killed her pimp. 😂😂😂 this is the beginning of chapter two.

“The blood stained rag hung off the counter, along with the others. I finished cleaning up my mess. Burned and buried his body, wiped up the blood. But I still sat there, with the knife in my hand and the memory of his lifeless eyes staring back at me. That "relief" I was feeling diminished the second I truly had a chance to think about what just happened. He was right. I'll never stop running from his evil colleagues and now from the law! I mean, he is powerful, famous even. Anybody could walk through that door right now and realize he's missing and then do anything in their power to find his killer. They'll then eventually track it to me. I just changed my life for the worse. Not just the running. I'm now a killer. I just killed a man. And that's something no one forgets. But I just did what I needed to do to survive. I think. And now i have to do something fast before anyone finds out what I have done. And There is only one person That I trust with the fate of my life.

The rap music pumped from the speakers at an alarming high volume in the crack house. The first thing I saw were countless bottles of liquor littered everywhere, passed out half naked bodies on the vandalized sofa and lots of drugs. I've never been in a crack house before and It's an experience I never want to relive. And There I saw Sophia. All the way in the back dapping up some thugs. I wanted cry but I've done that too much today already.

I just looked for a moment. I haven't seen my sister in a long time. But my love still remained. I just hope hers did too. I nervously approached her, pushing my way through gangsters, of both sex, with their pants low and dirty dancing. “