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I always wanted to be in control maybe this came from the struggles I went through as a child.

At ten years I had to be my own guardian since some suicide bomber decided to go out with a bang that claimed my parents lives.

Aunts and uncles materialized from the woodwork some of them I\'ve never met, their greed a poorly hidden behind the mask of concern.

They came into my home.

My parents, successful architects, had built a comfortable life. Now, that life was being destroyed apart, piece by piece.

My uncle, that weasel of a man with eyes that darted everywhere that he could gain something, explained as a \'grown up\' an \'adult\' and in legalnesse why everything had to go to him and he will share evenly. It was what my parents wanted and my relatives would be my guardians who will take care of me.

The house, the savings... everything.

It was okay for a while until...

I was deemed an "inconvenience," and best be left to the "professionals" at some no name orphanage.

One day a lavishly dressed couple with big smiles walked through the orphanage doors. They weren\'t interested in the older kids, their eyes scanning the room until they landed on me.

There was a strange thing in their eyes, urgency? Maybe... at the time I didn\'t know at the time they hid a sinister agenda behind their sweet pleasantries. A month later, I was whisked away, not to a loving home, but a prison.

Things were going good... You could say.

But the facade of a loving family crumbled fast. In each and every shared meal, every family movie night, I was reminded how much of an outsider I was.

Constant reminders of the "debt" I owed. "You wouldn\'t be here if it weren\'t for us," they\'d say.

Five years. Five years of emotional manipulation, of being treated like a tool to be used, not a person.

Then Lily\'s, my foster sister, health took a nosedive. My blood work, conveniently tested regularly throughout my stay, confirmed a perfect match. "

It\'s time you repay us," they declared.

The hospital room was bright and cold. As the anesthesia flowed into me making me unconscious, a single thought passed in my mind: I wasn\'t saved; I was an investment. And it was time for the payout.

After surgery... I was no longer the "debtor."

The scars on my stomach were reminders of my paid "debt." And my "caregivers," as they liked to be called instead of mom or dad, had vanished. Gone to a new country, "a new life to make Lisa forget all the pain she went through," they\'d declared, leaving me behind.

I was a single kidney lighter and was tossed back into the very system they\'d removed me from just a few short years before.

The orphanage wouldn\'t take me back, claiming "lack of space." Space, that seemed, was readily available for the other young children( the ones who will likely and easily be adopted) but not for me, I was getting old and what\'s worse I was returned by my first adopters, if people knew this they would think there was a problem with me. No one wants problems.

The orphanage was also some no named place so with lack of accountability I was thrown away.

The streets became my new home. Here, survival was a daily battle, a constant search and fight for scraps and a cardboard roof and nylon walls to call my home. I still attended a public school that the orphanage re-enrolled me into when I returned. But I was truant.

I had struggles I faced. I couldn\'t even feed myself somedays. But I got through okay as the principle let me study for free when he knew my circumstances.

Resentment grew within me. But I learned that power was the key.

Power would ensure I never ever become a victim again. But power resided in the big offices in those tall skyscrapers.

My only way of getting: the dusty shelves of the local library.

The librarian saw past my shaggy hair and tattered clothes.

With a silent nod of understanding, she allowed me access.

Within those hallowed halls, a truth gnawed at me – the library alone wouldn\'t be enough.The books were full of complex theories and equations and their application required a foundation I lacked.

Desperation fueled my resolve. Begging became an art, practiced on every street corners, outside restaurants, outside supermarkets and anywhere there was human traffick. Rejection was constant , but I still gained, with each crumpled note and coin that landed in my palm my determination was rewarded.

Stealing was a desperate measure that became a last resort.

But these weren\'t the only tools in my arsenal. Years on the streets had honed in me a different kind of skill – the art of subtle manipulation. A carefully made sob story, faked disabilities, anything just to tug at the heartstrings of the wealthy – these tactics filled the gaps left by begging and petty theft.

I managed to graduate highschool. But I was truant a lot. I just made sure to attend some hours and do my exam. Good thing the school I went to had a bunch of delinquents, the really poor who were old and even working jobs as well as attending class, pregnant teens and even adults who were there to get education they never had.

That with the Library, with each borrowed book, I felt like I was setting myself up for a great future.

I still had Alo to navigate through, especially danger in the streets. My successful thievery also made me a target. Being young and small, I was easy prey for older, more ruthless bums. The very act of accumulating money became a constant risk.

That\'s when the desperate idea struck me. The librarian the witness to my daily struggles, was the only person who seemed to possess a shred of humanity.

But could she be trusted?I took a gamble.Her gaze, knowing full well I stole, held no judgment. That day, with a stolen wad of cash, I hesitantly approached her.

With a weary nod, she produced a worn leather pouch from a hidden drawer. "For your education," she said with her rough voice"But please," she added, "be careful, child. These streets don\'t forgive mistakes."

From that day on, the library became my vault.

Still, I persisted. And graduated highschool miraculously. Some months passed and... One day, I saw a poster, a scholarship competition to a prestigious university, awarded solely on the merit of an entrance exam.

But as always I was cheated...