Death & Dying
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My past is misery; my present, agony; my future, bleak. And it is not just because I'm a thirteen-year-old girl, or because I'm too thin or too tall or because my hair is red (it's orange actually—but they call it red).
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The wind howled through the rigging, and a sheet of airborne spray sliced toward me over the top of the dodger. I gasped as the icy water hit me, soaking me from head to foot before it swirled away down the cockpit drains.
"Mom!" I shouted. "Mom! Please help me!" My voice was hoarse and my teeth were chattering. "Mom! I need you!" The wind snatched my words away and drowned them in the tumble of waves and spray.
I didn't want to die out here.
