By Chelsey Shannon
Chelsey used to be dealth the unthinkable.
When Her purely Surviving mother or father, her cherished father, was once violently murdered days ahead of her fourteenth birthday, Chelsey's existence was once endlessly replaced. As she was once pressured to come back to phrases with a brand new domestic lifestyles, a brand new university . . . a brand new id as an orphan, Chelsey struggled to make feel of her own tragedy. but she chanced on how to flourish regardless of the entire odds.
"I considered myself in a brand new mild: a woman, newly fourteen, status in her useless father's examine, all in black, a unmarried tear streaming down her cheek. i used to be by myself. My relatives informed me repeatedly i used to be now not, yet with out him, i used to be. i used to be now not anyone's child."
Because fact Is extra interesting Than Fiction
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Extra info for Chelsey. My True Story of Murder, Loss, and Starting Over
It became her mantra, her prayer to protect us all from the truth. Disarmed by the presence of both of my grandparents, I had little notion of what might have happened, and why my aunt, who scarcely ever cried, was so upset. “What? ” I asked, growing angrier and more anxious with each repetition. “Now, you can scream or do whatever you want when I tell you this,” she finally managed through her tears. I attempted to steel myself, but the truth was far beyond my naive notions of what the worst-case scenario could be.
We laughed, talking about nothing in particular. When we reached the top of the hill, he parted from me, and I said good-bye. As I turned toward my house, I registered the two cars in my driveway: my Aunt Chris’s green one and my grandparents’ gold one. Confused, I headed down to the end of the cul-de-sac where my house sat. Why are they here? I wondered. I knew I was spending the weekend at my grandparents’ house, but as far as I knew, they weren’t supposed to pick me up until the following day.
Spending so much time producing art and riding my bike served as a much-needed escape for me. I didn’t hide from my problems—to do so would have been impossible—but there were times when I required a break. When I did things like methodically teach myself to play the keyboard or spend hours sketching family photographs, I was able to focus on creating something, rather than on what had been taken away from me. Writing became a major refuge, the outlet into which I poured all my emotions of fear, depression, and the occasional dash of anger.
Chelsey. My True Story of Murder, Loss, and Starting Over by Chelsey Shannon