Until You, My Fugitive

Far From Home.

Taylor Connor

No rest for the wicked, superficially for those who partake in the high life, like myself. The irony is I guess we are the 'wicked', the perpetrator, the fugitive on the run from our so-called heroes of society. I imagine everything is looking pretty black and white from that perspective - good - evil, constructs that, since the beginning of time, have been prone to be foundational structures of our society, but for me, these black and white constructs are overshadowed and distorted by shades of gray, by people like myself. Simply put, I want to believe that my story wades on the spectrum of the gray scale.

Friday, 4PM. 

A monotone air-raid shot through the wind, inducing a raucous strident - windriven yet overpowered and weakened by on-coming traffic. Sonic booms of white muffled noise flashed an alluring red and blue hue in the distance as a I, with an aura reeking of deceit and rebellion, urged my legs to move faster down a sinuous, enigmatical alleyway, granting myself a small pocket of invisible immunity. My back sunk to the wall with the blazing sun glistening along my eyelids as I choked for mouthfuls of air. "A few more blocks until I reach the bus stop," I reminded myself, revealing my bus ticket from a torn, yet obscure jean pocket. 

I edged away from the wall rocklily, taking a breath as I maneuvered into a steady speed of running - never looking back. 

'I was born and raised in the boroughs of New York City - Queens. From when I was born until I was in the second grade, my parents could barely rub two pennies together, even after undertaking a second job wasn't enough. My mother skipped town shortly after, and as for my father, he began to drink his problems away, left for a rehabilitation clinic in 2014 - I think. Haven't seen him since.

 I was then left in my abuela's care, she'd always make sure I had enough money to get around, cook up a hot feast because she knew I didn't eat much at school, and the best of all, tell me these profound, yet inspirational stories from when she was kid on her journey from Mexico to America during the hot month of July in '64. Although, like all great people - her time came and she died, two years ago. As for myself, whatever family I supposedly still had, lived in Cancún, Mexico with a different last name and address - untraceable. Then, quickly, just shy of the age of 14, I landed in a shelter, more like an orphanage for lost and wayward teens despite their extinction. Met a girl named Julia there, she could never get my name right - apparently it was too long - 'Saal-va-dorr Sann-chez', I'd always spell it out to her, instead she would call me Taylor, she said I reminded her of someone. Though, despite her terrible literacy skills from years of educational neglect, she was pretty cool. 

Not long after, I was swallowed up by social services, in an attempt to get me into foster care. 'There's no trace of him, he's undocumented', we were both stunned by the news of my unknown and absent documentation, so I assumed a new name, Taylor Connor, but that still wasn't  enough to stop the police from busting my ass (I also stole a car - only to get me to this low-end, yet waterfront part of town)- so I ran with only my guitar and writing journals on hand. Have you decided? Good or bad-'

10PM. 

My train of thought halted as the collection of blurred trees and roads distorted into a lens of clear and focus from the bus window. "Hello, Evergreen Valley." I blurted out with an uncontrollable smile - I know the others on this bus probably think I am insane for thinking that this quaint, hidden, yet charming small town was anything other than boring and definitely not an ideal vacation spot, but maybe, charming is what I need right now.