8/21 leaving

8/21:
topic given- something you've discarded

I was twelve years old. It wasn't my choice. She yelled at me, why, why? But it wasn't my choice, I swear. They needed him in the west, and I had no choice.
"Here are the papers, look. We're looking for houses, look, right here."
"Shut up! Stop talking like that! It's not true, shut up!"
As if I wanted to throw away every year since I was two. But it wasn't my choice. She had to understand, I had to make her understand that it wasn't. My. Choice.
And then came the tears.
And then came the silence.
And then came the anger and then the yelling and then the walking out.
I was pissed too, you think I wasn't? I was mad as hell, you think I wasn't?
Who wants to leave? I don't want to leave!
And then came the goodbyes.
And then came the tears.
And then came the curbside and then the tree and then the car.
The car.
The big, black, tinted windows, car.
And in seconds it was gone. All of it.
But you have to believe me. It wasn't my choice.