“Flip!” My younger sister Elizabeth shouted at me as I walked in the front door, kicking the snow off my boots.

“Hey, Philip!” James, my 15-year-old brother shouted, walking through the hallway door holding something dark brown.

“Hello James, what now?” I asked. James smirked, holding up what I now realized to be a jacket.

“Your wife left her jacket,” He teased. He knew full well that Lydia was only my girlfriend, but he still had to push it. I began to run towards him,

“You little…” I growled, and he ran up the stairs, trying to make it to his room so he could lock the door on me. I ran faster, I was faster than him, and I grabbed him by the back of his collar. “I swear to god, if you rip that jacket,” I said, trying to wrestle the jacket from his grasp, but James kept a solid hold. I knew what I had to do. Even though he was 15, and didn’t want to admit it, James was extremely ticklish. I reached around his neck until my hand was nearly touching his chin. “Give me the jacket now, or…” James shook his head, and I tickled him under the chin. He collapsed into a pile of laughter, his grip releasing on the jacket, which I grabbed, then ran downstairs and to the front door.

“I hate you!!!” James shouted at me. I heard our mother from the other room,

“James Hamilton! Watch your language!” She shouted, and I laughed in my head. Even at 18, it still felt good to have my brother shouted at. I turned the handle on the door and stepped out into the cold, pulling my coat tighter around me. I walked until I reached the alleyway where Lydia had slept the night before.

“Lydia?” I called, but there was no reply. I walked down the sidewalk for a bit, until I came across a figure lying on the side of the street, blood slowly trickling from her head, leaned against a wall, as if she had passed out standing up. Dark brown curly hair covered her face, but something felt wrong. I lifted up a section of the girl’s hair to see Lydia, her skin burning, her face flushed, and her expression lifeless. I put one arm under her shoulders and the other under her knees, then picked her up, laying the brown jacket over her in a desperate attempt to keep her warm. Lydia’s head fell backwards, blood dripped onto the fresh snow. I stopped for a short break and sat on a bench just outside someone’s house, Lydia laying in my lap. I stood up, leaving her lying on the bench, and began to walk to the house we were outside, but the door swung open before I even reached the pathway. An angry woman stood in the doorway,

“Hey! Find somewhere else to sleep, you senseless drunk boy!” she shouted at Lydia, whose hair was covered by the jacket, and who was only wearing her trousers. I grew annoyed, and spoke to the woman.

“First of all, that’s a girl,” I said. The woman looked over at me, and huffed. “She isn’t drunk, she’s sick, possibly dying. She’s also my girlfriend, and I’m trying to keep her alive,” I continued, almost in ‘Ranting Territory,’ as Anthony called it, where I wouldn’t and couldn’t shut up about whatever I was talking about.

“She’s a dirt street rat is what she is, as are you, I’m guessing. What’s your name, boy?” the woman said, still angry. I walked towards the bench.

“My name is Philip Hamilton, good day to you too,” I told her through gritted teeth, picking Lydia back up. The woman turned red,

“So sorry, Mr. Hamilton, I didn’t realize that you went out with…” She stopped herself, but I knew what she was going to say. People were always shocked when they found out that someone from such a respectable family went out with a ‘Street Rat.’ I scowled at her, then continued on my way home, where Angelica and my father were fighting. Again. I ran up the stairs to the empty spare room, where I lay Lydia on the bed, and my mother walked in. She put her hand over her mouth when she saw Lydia, blood dripping from her head, passed out on the bed.

“Philip, wha-what happened?” she asked, panicked. I knew that she thought of herself as Lydia’s mother at times, and I told her what had happened.