It was the same thing everyday. Same routine, nothing to fill our boring lives with. Laying around in an abandoned bus with torn seats as beds and people who were once strangers that I now consider family. I was 12 at the time, when I was left to fend for myself. Living on my own with little knowledge in my undeveloped brain and learning the ropes of survival on the streets. I spent everyday of the last 13 years since I was left alone trying to figure out how to get by day by day. The taunting memory of the day my mother and father were thrown out of the house by some corrupt officers and how they left me standing there alone on the coldest winter night. I struggled. I thought my life was over. With no access into the house I once called home I wandered into the streets. I wandered looking for someone or maybe even something that could help me. One day passed, one week passed, one year passed, and I was coming to the realization that there was no hope for me. I felt as if I was in this deep dark hole that I couldn’t come out of. I would try and keep my hopes up that one day I would find a way to take care of myself by telling myself, ‘This is just temporary’ or ‘Just one more day’. Sometimes that was all I needed to get by. This continued for about 13 years until finally I found a place, a place where there were other people just like me and they understood me. It was an old bus, worn out, and torn up ,but it was a roof over my head. Something that I hadn’t had in what felt like forever. It reeked with a heavy stench, but that didn’t matter because I was just glad to have a place to stay.