Calum took a long drag of his cigarette. Too soon. It was too soon. He was stuck with the stomach curdling reality of the world he was living in. What was life worth living if he'd spent most of his time wanting to die. So on that cold autumn morning of his 19th birthday, he'd have never expected to be forced to face the pending silence of a funeral, finding himself crying on the shoulder of his mother, only hoping to feel alive again.
--
Cold. Calum was cold and it was dark. He stretched out under his comforter, gathering the strength to throw if off and get up, trudging over to the thermostat and raising the heat. Everything in his life felt frozen, so as he sat on his bed and watched the icy windows begin to thaw with the sudden increase of temperature, he daydreamed. He knew there was a way out of this. Out of feeling alone and cold. He wanted to feel his the warmth of his blood flowing through his body and the thrill of running through the night, feeling free, feeling happy. That's when he decided. It was time to run away. All he wanted was to run away. Quickly getting up, he pulled a black Northface book bag from under his bed, unzipping it and throwing in as many clothes as he could fit, a pack of cigarettes, and a lighter. He was cold, he was always cold, and out there, he'd be colder. Running to his closet, he pulled out and put on several shirts, one after another, and the heaviest coat he could find. He would be prepared. He'd planned this. He looked over his room. The worn down wooden desk he'd sit at every night and carve words into glowed in the moonlight. It was then that he remembered the wad of cash hidden in the crevice of a crack in the wood. He walked over, pulling it out, shoving it in his pocket.
Now. The time was now. He grabbed his phone and wallet, shoving them in his pockets and running down the stairs.
"Calum?" He'd heard the fragile voice of his mother call. He tried not to let the guilt of leaving her get to his head. It was almost like he could hear his conscience whisper: you're leaving her. Your mum. She took care of you. She loved you. He brushed it off, unlocking the front door and running out. Running from his little town. Running from his memories, and running from everything and everyone he'd let down. He'd run away.
