Getaway: Final Portfolio Getaway | Page 28

God. I used to tell myself to not worry, that hard things are common on normal people, to keep up trying and never give up, but I can’t anymore. I’m homeless, wearing offseason jeans, a striped blouse, flip-flops and an expensive designer handbag, but in that poor December night, my whole

life changed forever and my new goals were aiming high.

The rain fell on my face, soaking my eyelashes drowning my eyes. I was walking through downtown London on Christmas Eve. The Big Ben was watching me and the London Eye was fazing my head. Chunks of snowballs were covering the gray streets but the hot rain was melting the icy material. I was devastated and surrounded by the most magical holiday of the year. One of those double decker red buses dashed next to me on the road and drenched me with a combination of black ice and dirt. While cleaning myself up, I found a bill. The orange face of the Queen was hovering through the ground and while kneeling down to pick it up, a sensation of freedom

and hope passed through my veins.

I stood up from the ground and saw him. A corpulent male figure was standing right in front of me about to make a rapid movement. He snatched me by my back and covered my face with a black moist cloth. I couldn't move, see, and say anything. I was only able to hear the surroundings. At the background, the sound of the vehicles and the traffic fighting each other were still hearable, and the festive music from the city center was still ringing. For some weird reason, I didn’t find a motive to freak out. I was being taken by an unknown human to an unknown place, but I was still

calm and thinking the best.

I woke up hours later in a soundless place. I was inside a small room, maybe five meters by five meters, all covered in a white soft foam material. I could barely open my eyes, a horrible headache was penetrating the inner membrane of my brain. My arms and hands couldn’t budge, I was tied to

straight-jacket in an isolation room.

Suddenly, the small door of the room made a squeaky noise. Someone was getting in, I turned around and noticed it was my mother. She had a

hospital protection gown as well as a mouth mask.

“Vanessa, dear!” she cried.

“Mom, where I am?” I interrogated her.

She hugged me and combed my messy hair away from my face with her skinny fingers. She then told me the whole story. She explained how after my father’s death, she had found his journal filled with notes, ideas, and thoughts about everything. He had pages filled with fantasies, wish lists, and life dreams, but at the end of the journal he had written down an

entire page just for me, while he was in the hospital. My father had jott-

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