When her parents would fight, she would sit on her porch. Most of the time, it was deep into the dead of night. When her dad's lungs had been filled with smoke and her mom's breath stank of whiskey. The cold, crisp night air would nip at her skinny arms and legs. Her small lips would turn pale but she would choose blue lips over the loud shouts any day. She would stare up at the night sky, looking at every star her eyes could take in. Oh how she wished she could just fly away among the stars. She could fly. But only in her dreams. In her dreams, she would leap up with all her strength and spread her frail arms out. The wind would catch her and she would glide effortlessly up to the heavens. She would glide her fingers through the milky way and slide along in her socks on the rings of Saturn. If only she could leave this place. When the screaming resided, she would creep back into the house to her room and hide under her sheets. She would stare blankly at her pillow, tears running down her rosey cheeks until she fell asleep. She never knew the story of Santa.
