Running to Nothing

Preface

7 months and 4 days ago

I never understood the idea of home. Everyone's hope has been worn as thin as the cheap tin we use as roofs. My father's patience has too, sending his feelings down his belt and onto my back. Mother - as I still call her even though we don't have stuffy neighbours or the maid to impress anymore - has taken sick again. School is little more than an idea.

But with me, that's all I need. Sadly, it's all father needs to unbuckle his belt. I stole a bag from someone I don't know, and I've been pinching things here and there. A first aid kit. Scarf. Gloves. Meals. Those are the hardest, as Father locks them up. What he doesn't know is that the lock has long rusted away. I prepare food for Mother, slipping scraps of cloth into my pockets, unable to stop the rage bubbling up inside of me. Just miles away, high-ranking officials are eating rich pork chops and fresh greens. It should have been us, but Father loves his bourbon and heroin more than us. If nothing else, my rage warms me up. I try hard to remind myself that we're luckier than most before I remember that we aren't. We should have been.

Mother is thin and fading. There is almost nothing left of her, father has even robbed her of her once long, gorgeous hair. Every piece of jewellery she used to wear proudly, draping inches of bare skin with gems has been sold, to be traded for white powder or brown liquid. Still, she manages a small smile. I try to return it, wincing against my blood-stained shirt, back marred with fresh scars.

"Don't pretend for me." Even like this, she has more life than many of us left.

I just nod and hand her a spoon of soup.

"Soon," she talks to the wall more than me. "Tell me soon."

"What do you mean, mother?"

"I wish you wouldn't call me that." My old mother would never have said that. "Do you even know my name?"

"It's Adrenna." I know this only from the shouts that used to come from my parents.

"Like I was saying," She tries to lift her hand up, but can't. "You'll run soon."

"What makes you think that?" I try to maintain a neutral expression.

"Don't lie to me. I would too." The pain with which she says it hurts me. "I want to give you something." I tuck the threadbare blanket under her chin, hands shaking. Her weak hand nudges mine and I pull back the side of the blanket, to see her thin, pale, shaking hand and a short length of silver.

"It is all I have. And now it is yours."

A silver rectangle with the letter "A" stamped on it, stung along a thin silver chain. A little tarnished, but my mind reels. How did she hide it? I tuck it into my pocket and smile at her.

"Thank you, mother."

She gives me a weak smile and limply holds my hand.

"Run. Run until you can't"

When I wake up in the morning, she's not breathing, Father is nowhere to be found.

I know it's time to leave. I take every piece of clothing she has and stuff it in my pack. Whatever weak painkillers I can scrape from our medicine box, I do. I wrap my arms around my dead mother and cry until my father comes home, throwing his heavy coat, one of the only good things left on a hook, not even caring about my mother. After wrapping up Mother's breakfast and my dinner, I layer on four thin shirts, tucking the small silver 'A' underneath, bandaging the cuts tightly first, trying to suppress the feeling on an unscarred back. With the many strips of fabric crisscrossing my body, it could almost be a shirt on its own. Still freezing, an idea takes shape. After checking Father's pulse, I slip over to the hook and tug free the thick jacket, sliding it over my worn shirt. It's a little hard to balance the pack on top of the loose jacket, but I manage. Night has fallen, which is not a surprise as we never know how the day will play out. I didn't know my mother was going to die today. It takes a little effort, to reach inside of me, but I make my hand glow. I've had to hide this part of me for so long, for fear of my father selling me. It feels nice to stretch out my power.

I walk and run until morning peeking over the world. Hair blowing into the wind, I look behind me, trying to see if I can see my city.

I see nothing. That is what I have. Oddly enough it makes me feel free. I don't have a crappy tin roof or an abusive father. I don't have a dead mother or shreds of clothing. What I have is a backpack, an oversized coat and powers I barely understand.

And a necklace that is beginning to warm up my collarbone, out of its own accord, as if its energy is heating up with me.

I have everything I need.