Lost

1

Beatrice Prior, July 8th, 2005
"Beatrice Prior, get off your damn iPod so we can have some family time!"
I can barely hear my mom over the music blasting in my headphones.
"In a minute" I say.
"We're in New York, for God damns sake, just get your lazy ass over here" she calls out. I roll my eyes.
I'm surprised my mom actually bought me an iPod shuffle for my 12th birthday, after I begged her for it; she should've known Id be on it 24/7.
I place my iPod into my back pocket, without stopping "Cry me A River" by Justin Timberlake, and head to the couch area.
Caleb is sitting on the couch, a tuxedo on on, matching my dad. My mom wears a nice navy blue dress, her face layered with makeup. She doesn't need it though. She has a natural beauty that she shouldn't hide.
"Why so fancy?" I ask, finally pausing the music.
"We're going to a Broadway show" they say, "We told you to get ready multiple times in the last hour"
I shift my weight, "Which show?"
"Wicked"
Of course! We discussed it a few times! Now I finally get to see it and brag to my friends, since hey don't have the money to travel.
Wow, don't I sound selfless?
"Let me go get ready-" I say, beginning to walk towards the door to change.
"No" my dad interrupts, clearing his throat, "You're not coming"
My jaw drops, "What?"
Goodbye bragging rights.
"We think you should get off you're iPod" my mom says, "Since you weren't listening, we think its a lesson you should learn"
"I'm only twelve! You can't leave me alone!" I yell at them.
"Next time, you have to listen" they say. Tears form at the back of my eyes. How could they? How could they?
I bite my bottom lip harshly.
"Fine" I say, "Be that way"
I cross my arms.
I try to act as if it doesn't affect me, my insides are screaming at them.
I'm your daughter, how could you?
"Have fun on your iPod" Caleb says, his little thirteen year old pimpled face grinning at me.
My mom gives me a quick sympathetic look, but my dad
doesn't bother looking at me.
The door is shut right in front of my face. I let a tear escape from the corner of my eye. But I find the courage to wipe it away.
I will see Wicked. They can't stop me.
I grab my wallet and a jacket.
I'll give them a ten-second head start.
Ten.
Nine.
Eight.
Seven.
Six.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.

Tobias Eaton, July 8th, 2005

"Why can't you ever just listen to me, son?" Marcus says, his stance overpowering.
I wince, afraid, "I'm sorry, sir. It will never happen again"
"You damn right it won't!" He encourages. I peer over to the couch. I truly how he hasn't drunken too many beers.
Another bad beating like yesterday is just what I need.
I take a glance at the window behind me. It was wide open, and I was lucky enough to live on the third floor. I only had a few stairs I could climb down, and I could make a run for it.
I stare back at my "father."
He wasn't a really father after mom passed away. Fathers don't drink all day trying to forget their worries, and beat their son to a bloody pulp, do they?
Didn't think so.
I've been thinking about how freedom would taste on my tongue, I hardly got a taste of it.
I could sprint out the open window.
I could.
I should.
"Are you even listening to me?" he shouts his head red from either alcohol or anger. Either way, they're both bad.
Something inside me chants that I shouldn't sprint out that window, never looking back.
But wherever that voice is now, it's a faint whisper.
I feel like I'm flying when I sprint to the door, hopping out.
"Where are you going? Come back this instant!" He yells
I don't stop.
"TOBIAS!" He yells.
I reach the ground and sprint. I avoid pedestrians, who shoot me strange looks.
I can make it to Times Square, and I'll find out something from then.
I'll have to.
I can hear my name being yelled over and over again. No, not yelling. Screaming.
But I block out the voice.
I can make it to Times Square.
It'll be my safe haven.
I'll be safe.