I can hardly remember the faces, all the faces they swim in my head carving cruel circles in my mind. Backstabbers are worse than enemies, they say echoing my thoughts, speaking of themselves in hateful tones, taking away the only thing they couldn't take. And this forest is taking my sanity in turn. 

“Consorter” I whisper to the oaks as I bury my makeshift axe in a rather large one. (a sharpened stone and thick piece of wood I wrapped in a piece of my jeans to prevent splinters.) 2 weeks ago I had been at a big bonfire. My best friends Cas Hyern, Maia Sterner, Jordan Drikman, Brin Sansberg and I all squished in my moms mini van. I was driving thanks to my shiny new drivers licence reading Quincy Davids with a picture of me beaming up at the camera braces off at last.

Milli the most popular girl in school (mainly because of her looks and the fact that her name ended with a i which was “so exotic”) 

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