Hope: The Runaway

Was it?

August 12, 5:39 AM.

Dang. I couldn't sleep at all last night, I kept thinking about he typewriter. I fell asleep for only about a few hours, and I woke up just a few minutes ago. I am so glad I can finally see what time it is.

Anyway, I'm still upstairs in her daughters room. I'm sitting at the desk with a blanket I found in the closet draped over my legs. I keep looking at the typewriter. Man, that thing is amazing.

I wrote a few things and then stuck them in the back of my diary, so I could keep them to remember when...

Did I just say 'diary', and not care at all?

Dang, that's unusual.

I hate saying diary, but I'm too tired to erase it. I just woke up, you know?

I wonder what to do. I've been looking out the window a lot, wondering if I should steal some clothes and a toothbrush and stuff I need and scram. Sherry's a sweet lady, I hate stealing from her. But I need some clean clothes. Speaking of clothes, I changed into some jeans and a t-shirt I found laying on the bed. Sherry must of put them there. Sherry...

I'm so glad Brett didn't tell Sherry I was a runaway. But why?

I wonder what time we're leaving. I am so eager to get out, but I don't want to make Sherry feel bad.

Man, I feel so sorry for her. I lie to her, and she gives me food, shelter, clean clothes and a shower. Man, I loved that shower. She's just so innocent, and I'm just tricking her. If only, you know?

If only.

If only my mother hadn't of gone in that rainstorm. If only my dad hadn't gotten drunk. If only my aunt didn't have to leave me there at the foster home. If only Lindsey didn't have an insane partner. If only it wasn't.. Because of me. Was it?

No. Yes?

I don't want to think about it. My eyes are already blurring. I start crying when I write- or even think about it.

I can hear things rattling downstairs in the kitchen. Maybe someone's up. I'm going to go and check it out.

August 12, don't even have an idea what time it is, afternoon

God, I hate people.

Well, only certain kinds of people. I hate those kinds where they force pressure on you when they ask you a question, they just yearn for honesty. Well, I can't give you real honesty. Kind of like, fake honesty.

I'm lying to them, but that's what I tell everyone. Sometimes I'll tell them what happened to my family, but not my mom in specific details. No, not my mom. No one can see me cry. I just say... She died. No one would really care anyway.

Anyway, I went downstairs after I heard pots clinging and clanging, and I saw Sherry fixing fresh eggs. Mmm, they smelled good. Like, really good.

She turned and saw me sniffing the air, and I quickly snapped my head in her direction, forcing my nose down from the airy egg smell. She chuckled. "These are from outside." She directed her hand towards the kitchen window, so I walked over to it and leaned over, feeling the wind blow my brown hair from my face.

Chickens!

Free roaming chickens! They just walked around, plucking at the green grass. I giggled. They looked so dumb.

"It is nice, having fresh eggs laying out in the yard." She flipped the egg on a plate. I nodded. It probably was the life, having free roamed chickens, picking up free eggs every morning and have way better eggs than those nasty store-bought eggs that make you gag.