ᴠᴏʟᴀᴛɪʟᴇ.

Chapter 1.

As I slipped on my baggy band tee I stepped onto my bed with a warm and soft comforter. I couldn't help but feel neurotic. The only things I was thinking was along the lines of "Shit. Fuck. Fuckshit. Shitfuck."

I couldn't help myself, could I?

No, I really couldn't. A small sigh escapes my mouth. It's been a month. A month of reading web-comics and reading fanfics and of watching romance movies and imagining and daydreaming and watching shows. Life was getting too boring. There's nothing that would satisfy me more than to find someone I truly love. I just want to be loved. Even if it turns out to be shit. I'm in love with being in love. I sink back slowly in my comforter so I can watch another episode of a TV show or watch part of a movie where there's slightly even a glimpse of excitement from the corny love scenes of one of the hundreds of Julia Roberts rom-coms, half of those with Richard Gere. I begin to think about if it was me in place of those fractures of media I consume regularly and hyperfixate on.

I sink even deeper into my bed. I love gushy love stuff and old romance movies and cheesey shows like Steel Magnolias and When Harry met Sally. I could not stand one more night alone. If I had a girlfriend I'd treat her like she was the only girl that ever existed. I'd put her on a pedestal and make her feel like she was worth it. Make sure she's the happiest alive. I would take her out to talk on coffee dates and kiss her forehead buy her gifts and spoil her on her birthday and never, ever, not be there for her.

I start to bite my lips as tears bleed down my face, blurring my vision. God, this is sad.  I sit up in my bed and look up at the moon. It's a small crescent, slightly yellow and brown and soft by all the light pollution in my tiny little town.

Fuck it.

I grab my laptop, clothes and some other shit like deodorant, brushes, warm clothes and my phone/charger. I just can't fuck with this shit anymore. I make my way to my parent's room. Of fucking course they're not home yet. Still out drinking. I look in my mom's dresser drawer and pull out 1,200 dollars worth of cash in the fake bottom of the drawer. I'm so tired of my parents keeping all my money stowed away for college. yeah right, suuure I'm going to college. I layer on an extra hoodie and sweatpants. I stow away in the kitchen, grabbing anything I need. I take out my phone and check the time. What the fuck? It's 4:30 in the morning. Screw it. I make my way out of the door. I want to text someone that I'm leaving.

But I have nobody I can text.

When I make it to the gas station I buy two things. Three, actually. A lighter, Some earbuds, and a Pair of scissors. If I was going to be sucessful in my journey, I was going to have to take on a new look. The walk to the gas station was way too long. I'm fucking eighteen and I still don't have a car. 

The cashier looks at me weird. It's sort of two faced, a look of curiosity, pity, and disgust. I'm used to those looks. At this moment I'm looking like I walked out of a crackhouse, and with the things I'm buying right now It probrably confirms her inference. I awkwardly stretch out an arm to set a ten on the counter then again to collect change.

Why should I care?

No, really why should I care about being grounded, having a life in one place, having a home? Why should I care when my home is a town full of hunky doorie kids who are just ruthless to each other. Why should I care if my parents don't care if I leave anyway? Why should I care if there's nobody who seemed to care for me and not even a friend. The only time when I hear somebody else saying my name is during roll call at school. Mars. Mars. Mars. playing  over my head on the scratchy intercom speaker. 

At this point, I'm practically frantic, TV girl blasting in my ear as I run down the wet, damp alleyway. Of course now it decides to rain. 

As I get to the bus stop, it's calm. I look out into the seemingly warm-looking night. It's beautiful in a way that is calming. To think that this would be the last view of my home. I remember when I was young. My mom, a tall and loving, tall woman with brown cropped hair. She was better. When she was younger, anyway.

The giant bus seems to pull up in it's blue-grey fluorescent lights and windows. It seems like a fever dream. It's practically glowing in the night, shining tall and gleaming, blue with a Maybelline foundation ad plastered on the side. I take long pause and a couple deep breaths to get on that bus. 

But now I know, that I'd never regret it.