They don't mention the hard parts about leaving.
They don't mention the arguments or the tears. No one mentions the nausea that washes over you or the swaying in your legs as you make drinks and take orders at work, knowing you can't tell anyone your secret; Knowing you can't tell them this is the last time they'll see you. The fake smiles, the pounding of your heart when the shift is over.
They don't mention the breakdowns you have in the car, how the needle of the speedometer seems to have a mind of its own as your sobs ring out and coat the insides in agony.
They don't mention the lead-up. They don't the eggshell-coated stairs you bleed on as you make your way out of the hell you were born into, the emotional baggage dragging you back with promises of change. The whispers of the past consume you.
They don't mention the good times that make the door handle a little too hot to touch, the searing pain of your inner child begging you not to go, not to leave because she needs you now, more than ever, and you're turning your back on her.
They don't mention how breathtakingly painful it is to consider yourself a coward, a terrible daughter, a sister that abandons her brothers like her father had done.
The don't mention how easy the lies slip out, how bone-chillingly calm you can be despite falling apart inside.
They don't mention that even though it's right to leave, you choke on your guilt. You see the faces of those you love most disappearing behind you, thinking you'll come back in a few hours.
They don't mention that you can't say "Good-bye", or "I love you."
They don't mention that being a runaway is the last option to save yourself, even if no-one wants to believe you.
They only ever mention how freeing it is, how happy they are on the drive.
They never mention the truth; Running away can be the best and the worst decision you can make.
YOU ARE READING
Runaway
Short StoryA record of all my writing (that I can find), as well as a rendition of what I can remember.
