Breathe. I used to think that this word merely meant to bring in and release. To just inhale and exhale. I thought it was only meant to be an act that was essential to life. But I was wrong. I’ve never been so wrong in my entire life. That single word could change someone’s fate in under a second. It doesn’t mean to just let in and out. This action could either destroy you’re life or save it. I know it sounds odd. How could breathing make a person perish? Simple. Breathe can betray you whenever it wants. I know it seems odd to mention a personification in this form. But breathing can bring new life as well. Someone so close to knocking at the doors of death could instantly escape just by breathing. I know these groups of contradictions sound unreal, and insane. Why am I even speaking of these things in the first place? Well, everyone has a story to tell each soul has there story radiating like the sun around them, but most people can’t achieve that. I use to think the meaning of the word revival meant to revive, or bring life to. To make new life or power up a dead soul. But now that I think about it, it means more than that. Like the word hope, it also means to restore faith. For example, if a person is so close to death but suddenly they revive by either a change of physical and mental power, or a change in there life. Another example is when a person is so depressed that they refuse to go on. But then they are brought back to life by either finding new interests or find something worth continuing to live there life. This word is similar to breathing because if you don’t make a decision, you surely will perish. I know this isn’t much of a story, but everyone has a story so other people can feel it. I just hope you can feel mine.

It all began with one girl, one bike, and one storm.

I was running down the steps of my house, my sketchbook and pencils in hand. I wanted to go down to the beach to sketch out a panoramic of the sunset and the sea. My mom was at the library shelving books, and my dad was at the hospital as usual helping patients because he was a nurse. They usual didn’t mind when I went off on my own when they weren’t there. They trusted me enough to go and come back safely, with no trouble. I texted my mom “Going to the beach to draw, I’ll be back.” As soon as I sent it, I got a text back from my mother saying “Alright Wren. Be safe.” I put my sketchbook, pencils, and my phone into my satchel. I went outside an grabbed my back. I hopped down and sped along the cliff side road. The sky looked extremely stormy. Usually it always looked like this where I lived. But not like this. It looked just to dense. As if it was going to scoop up every single grain of sand. Sucking up anything in it’s way. I started to worry. Everything was starting to be knocked over into the sea. I felt like an extremely strong storm was going to come. Before I could finish my thoughts, the wind pushed my bike against a nearby boulder. I finally realized what was happening. Hurricane. I was starting to feel my shoulders drooping. My leg felt like it got penetrated by a thousand needles. My head hurt so much that even if I moved just a little bit felt like I was going to break my whole skull in half. Everything started to go black. My mind was raising as I strained myself to get back up again. But I was to late. I had plunged into the pit  of darkness in my head.

“Wren… Oh my goodness, doctor is there anything serious?” I recognized that voice as my fathers. I heard the words sever concussion and broken ankle. My breathing was starting to become labored and unsteady. “Breathe Wren. Breathe.” Just hearing those words made me feel relief in my chest. Weeks later I was on crutches and my head was still throbbing hear and there. But I survived a hurricane. I thought. Just because of one word. When I was knocked down, I was able to stay alert and awake for about an hour or two. I had called my parents, telling them what happened before I blacked out. I was breathing heavily the whole entire time.I found out my mom died in the storm trying to save a women stuck in a ditch.

“Wren you must come out, we will be late to your mother’s fu-ceremony.” My best friends whispered into the doors aged wood cracks. Just the sound of the word mother made me want to hide in a cloak of darkness. I knew he was about to say the word funeral, but she replaced it with a more suitable word for my situation. “Wren please, your mother would want to see you one last time.” I sat on my bed for a few seconds deep in thought. I got up to open the door, my black dress wrinkled and stained with tears. My dark chocolate colored hair tumbling down my drooping shoulders. I looked at the mirror on the wall. My piercing dark mahogany eyes looked almost black. My olive skin looked as pale as a sheet of paper. I opened the door my best friend Peter stood there. His messy dark hair some what tamed. He was wearing a suit instead of his usual uniform of jeans and a graphic t-shirt. He looked almost like a stranger, but his striking eyes were the same.We walked out the door heading toward the meadow nearby. My mother lived in the same house ever since she was born. The meadow was like her sanctuary, before she died.

While I was walking, I realized that things like this happened. My mom had gone to a place where she didn’t have to experience suffering anymore. She will still be able to withstand a storm, when the wind rises, and the sky falls. For years I lived waiting. Waiting for when the storm will break.

I used to be able to run, to hide, to be free. I realized that it’s not possible anymore. I will never be able to look out at the sunset without suspicious eyes watching. I won’t be able to go to my friend’s house without being followed and be asked the same exact question every time. “What are you exactly doing here?” The worst part about the wall dividing everyone is the fact that for the rest of my life, I can’t see them ever again. It is 1964, Berlin, Germany. 3 year since the wall was built. I was sleeping over at my friend’s house the night they built the wall. One day there’s nothing, the next day we’re divided. My family and I lived the other side of Berlin. For three years we have been divided. And I’m sick of it. I need to escape.

“Forest! Breakfast!” Yelled my friend Charlotte’s mother. For the past three years, her family was kind enough to let me live with them. They were family friends, so it felt right. For the past few months, I had been starting to dig an underground tunnel that went under the wall.I started it because I wanted to reunite with my family. I knew it was a huge risk. Putting my life on the line like that, but I needed to do it. It felt correct to me. I was walking one day from school, when I saw an old broken down house in an alleyway. The old structure curiously was close to the wall. I inspected it, finding old rusted shovels, wheelbarrows, and gloves. Instantly, an idea struck me like a lighting bolt. I started digging. I started with a small hole, it grew from the size of a bucket, to the width of a barrel. I told Charlotte when I was halfway done. She cried that night but didn’t tell her parent. She agreed that it was the right decision, and supported it. Thought it was tough for her.

As I ate my breakfast I thought about how I might be able to escape today. I only needed to dig up soil a little bit more. After I ate I headed toward the alley. But instead I saw one more thing. Something that didn’t belong there. A guard. His facial features looked incredibly familiar. As if we’ve known each other before. When we made eye contact he let out a little gasp. “Forest.” I stood there in shock, how did this guard know my name. Specifically my name? But then I recognized the voice. It sounded like a nineteen year old’s voice. A certain nineteen year old. “George?” I said hopefully. He took off his mask. His emerald green eyes shining brightly as he opened his arms and wrapped me in a a bear like hug. My older brother was actually here. But what about mama and papa? I started asking him a lot of questions as he did to.

It turns out that he had dug a tunnel as well, but instead it was closer to the other side of the wall where I was. He said that his friends worked as a guard and let him borrow his uniform for this reason. He said that he was here to bring me home. He had positioned the tunnel near Charlotte’s house, we escaped at exactly 5:15.

Rebellion. That word is probably what represents 80% of our spiritual blood. For most people, it’s hard to find that they have it in them. You could be the most proper person in the world. And yet most of you is made up of a renegade’s blood. People who show acts of rebellion radiate on people. They inspire them to follow there own beliefs and truths. They encourage people to follow what their heart has been shouting at them ever since their soul was introduce to the world. Nowadays people tend to stay low in there comfort zone, they don’t hound for new adventures. They don’t stand up for what they believe is right. Radioactive. The one word that can describe a person that has the blood of a renegade, and the heart of a rebel.

All my life I was running, running for myself and more. I didn’t care what the other teens my age said about me. I was standing up for me. I was standing up for what I believed in. I didn’t realize until now how much of an impact you could make doing thing like this. Especially since I’m only twelve, and I am a female artist standing up for what I think is right for not just for my school, but for everyone. Not just me.

“As a young artist myself, I believe that art not only increases scores in an average student’s comprehension, but can create a huge impact on the students life. Physically and mentally in there health and lifestyle. It can clear a students mind from the conflict of everyday problems and abnormality’s. Art is all about expressionism, letting a student express themselves in this way, allows them to not only feel calmer, but make them a better student. For years you have told the student body that you would create an art room in the school for students to go in and out of with there classes. I haven’t been seeing that for the six years I have been here. Though I am in sixth grade I still care about the education of the next generation. Therefore I would like you to introduce art to the young children here.”

After I was done with my speech, the principal just sat there with a dumbfounded look on his face.

“But we have art appreciation days in each classroom.” He said

 “But that is not enough.” I said.

“I am surprised by your determination, you’re a true rebel aren’t you? He said with a sly smile.

“I don’t now about that sir, but what I do know is that these students, you have no idea what I have seen from them. They are going through things you can’t even imagine can happen to a child as young as they are out there.”

“But we have nothing. You have nothing, unless you can start a hit fundraiser, I don’t understand how you could.” He said with a sad smile.

“But I have faith.” I said with more confidence.

“I will consult with the head superintendent of the district.” He said.

Right then and there I knew that it was going to happen. I saw that my prediction was correct when the next day, the head superintendent was signing a paper stating that they would spend the next school year spending, saving and retrieving for the new art room installation. But what really had surprised me was how students started to start there own rebellion,consulting with teachers, principles, and other staff and head specialists about change and new additions to improve the school for future generations. I was shocked to see that I was the first student to ever rebel against a principle. I continuously slipped pieces of my art and work into the offices. Representing the acts of hate against the fact that there was not art.

When people ask me things like  “What are three words to describe you” or “How would you describe yourself?” All I can say is I’m a rebel.

( This is a true story.)

Hope. I used to think that word was a miracle. A word that could help and heal. A word that can rebuild and restore. A word that can keep a kind and good soul immortal. It used to be my favorite word. I thought I was the luckiest girl in the world to have this word as my actual name. But not now. I don’t trust this word. Not anymore. Not after what happened. They said hope can heal him. I believed them. That was the worst decision of my life.

“Hope.” There was a painful pause as I walked up to my best friends mother, she had a pained look on her face. It was easy to tell that she spent her nights crying and her days grieving. My steps were shaky as I walked slowly across the shiny hospital room floor. “He want’s to see you Hope.” She said with a pained smile. My hands shaked as I opened his room door. He was laying on his bed, his face brightened as I walked beside his bed. “Hey Leo.” I said, forcing a sad smile. His mom was watching us from the doorway. Her head leaning on the cold hard wood.

“You know what one of the nurses told me today when she was feeding me lunch?”

“What did she say?” I asked

“Hope will heal you, hope heals every soul.”

I smiled the biggest grin I could muster in weeks.

“So will you heal me Hope?” He asked with a little smile.

“I will, I promise.”

“I feel better already.” He said.

I got up to leave, but before I did he said. “Don’t forget to count the stars.”

“I won’t Leo.”

‘See you tomorrow Hope.”

“Same to you Leo.”

He died the next day at 7:22 am, on Friday February 16. He had died of heart failure. But I think he died because hope didn’t heal him. I didn’t heal him. His dark brown hair would never wave in the wind. The fingers that would never build another contraption. The eyes that would never see the stars.

I sat on the beach my dark chestnut waves of hair, flowing in the smooth wind. I live in a beach house, living so close to the beach means that there are literally no signs of the city. Just my house. Every night I walk out to the beach and sit on one of the high rocks sitting on the smooth fresh sand. And I count the stars. Now what I mean by that is I just sit. All I do is look, listen, think, and feel. The only action words that matter to me. Leo and I have been doing this since we were seven. We’re thirteen now. It’s been three months since he died.

I looked at my wrist, scars and scratches on my upper arm from climbing rocks. I inspected my face in the clear water. Eyes changing colors like a kaleidoscope. Thick long lashes. Lips the color of roses. Cheeks a light pink. Leo used to call me Snow White because he thought my face looked exactly like it was depicted in the fairy tales. But I hated being called a princess. But now I see how he thought I was.

Not only did my looks change, but my thoughts did as well. I usually didn’t trust hope. Especially after what happened. But I realized that even when someone, or something doesn’t get the ending they deserve, they will still have hope. Leo was in so much pain. He’s relieved from it all now. He won’t have to suffer trying to look at our solemn faces. Hope can come in different ways, whether it helps or not. Whether it heals or not, or if it rebuilds or not. One trait can’t decide your fate. It can’t define your destiny. But it can help you. It took me a long time to understand that. I continued thinking as I counted the stars, hoping that Leo was to.

My chest felt like thousands of arrows were piercing into my lungs. My legs and arms felt like bags of wet sand. “Do what I say, before I kill you with my bare hands!” The evil queen yelled from across the room as I crumpled to the obsidian floor. “How do I know if I can trust you, that I can trust that you will give me my heart back?” I retorted back. Then a sharp pain spread across my limp body like poison rapidly about to reach my brain. With a weak breath I was able to muster one sentence. “I will do it, but you will regret your decision as quickly as you are going to regret doing what you just did.” I watched as the dust fell from her bony hands, the dust that was once my heart. The heart that once supported a life and soul. Now I had no emotion, no soul, no heart.

I found myself in the woods, the queen sent me to kill, to kill the one person she despises most. The name Snow White repeated in my mind like a child ridiculing another. I first saw her wandering the woods. Her hair was as black as night, her cheeks were as rosy as spring flower, Her lips were the color of blood. I came close to her, reaching for my dagger slowly. She instantly realized that her death was coming close. Her kind smile fading away, as she said “She sent you here didn’t she?” I came closer, and whispered “If you can’t hide, run, and if you can’t run, hide.” I watched her run, running far away.

I blindfolded myself and took out my bow, putting in an arrow as well. I fired. This helped me think. But I saw something I never wanted to see in the first place. The carcass of the sleek creature lay on the soft grass, blood seeping down from it’s neck to it’s soft fur near it’s stomach. It’s tail lay limp and lifeless. It’s eyes were pure black, shining in the light. The beautiful eyes that would never see a single soul. The soft fur ears that would never hear the songs of the forest birds. The legs that would never run on fresh soil. The dead deer laid in front of me, dead. The arrow I shot it with was pierced into it’s heart, I took out the heart and put it in cloth to represent Snow’s. It was know the heart that would never beat, the heart that will never bring a single breath.

The bones are the cage of a wild soul. The home for a wrath so strong and bold. A yearning so strong and so unwise. A longing so deep and painful inside. A decision worthy of a painful death, a task so hurtful and agonizingly set. A past so harsh and cold. A body so strong, burly and alive. And yet so dead inside. Wild eyes, a fatal  mind. A weak heart, but will decide. the fate that he sets upon himself, that will quickly escape and reveal oneself.

I am the huntsman, the one who kills. The one who sends each soul to there deaths. The soul with no heart.