Personal Narrative: My Genocide

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The breeze is brisk as it runs along the side of the riverbank, winding through the vast towering woodland, and finally crashing face first into our bodies as Key and I walk in the blooming meadow. The meadow, being the dullest place when cold, springs to life whenever a warm front rolls in. The ugly browns and greys turn into turquoises, magentas, and crimsons. A rainbow. A box of crayons. Key says that is what the meadow is. Her favorite place to be. In comparison, she says she hates the forest with her entire being. When we had ventured once, the massive size and dark unappealing colors stirred something in me. The forest like a tempter luring children in, and something told us that if we were to go in there, we would never come back

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