Runaways > > Mikey Clifford

\\Chapter One\\

I'm done. Sick and tired.
I can't believe this is what must be done for me to keep my sanity. This is so fucking ridiculous.
I'm running away.
Packing up what little belongings I have and leaving.
Why should a bullied sophomore have to come home to a drunk and abusive family and no friends to talk to about it, face-to-face instead of face-to-screen?
It's about 6 at night, it's a Friday.
I grabbed my tattered duffle bag from my closet and grabbed all the clothes I have, which is so little an amount I would be able to fit them in a shoebox.
I also grabbed my headphones, phone charger, blanket, and pillow and shoved them in too.
I grabbed all the snacks I stash in my room, candy, little debbies, chips, cans of coke, water bottles, and put those in the side pocket.
I went downstairs to find my parents sitting on the couch making out like crazy. This happens every day, yet it always gets grosser and grosser to me. The living room reeks of alcohol and cigarette smoke, the usual.
"I'm leaving."
They pull apart for a split second to say,
"Bye."
I wave and walk out the door.
I don't know where I'm going yet, but anywhere is better than here.
I decided to walk somewhere I've never been before, so I just started taking random turns on streets I've never been down.
I was walking for about a half an hour when I came across a playground with a guy that looked about my age wearing a gray hoodie with blue sleeves, with floppy dirty-blonde hair sitting on the swings. He was also wearing galaxy leggings.
I was really lonely, but I was not in the mood to get murdered, yet I didn't really have anything to lose, but I also don't want to get shanked.
But then I thought,
Hey, he can't be that dangerous if he wears galaxy leggings.
So I decided on YOLO, and headed over and sat next to him on the swings.
It was then when I noticed he had a duffle bag similar to mine sitting on the ground.
"Hey," I said.
"Hi."
His voice was kind of deep for what he looked. He didn't look up at me, just kept staring at his feet.
"I'm Mars."
"Michael."
"Nice. So.... What are you doing here so late? I mean, if you don't mind, of course," I asked, and regretted it instantaneously.
"No, it's fine," he said, and I felt some of the awkwardness release. He was still looking at his feet as he said,
"I... ran away."
"Really? Well, same here," I said. "Guess we're both runaways."
"Well, there's something. What set you off, if you don't mind?" he asked. He looked at me for the first time, and I saw a lovely pair of green eyes.
"S'fine. Well, long story short, parents retired a few years ago, became abusive drunks," I said, and showed a few bruises from the past week where my father had gotten angry while he was drunk (not a good combination at all, by the way) and pushed me around against walls and tables. I also have a black eye from when he threw an empty beer bottle at me. And my mom is just as bad because she sits there and watches as if it's a theatre play.
"Oh. Well, I'm basically in the same situation. Abusive crackheads."
He showed me some scratches and bruises he had all over his arms, and a small circle-shaped burn on his arm, which I immediately recognized as a cigarette burn, as I've had quite a few myself.
"Oh. Where you headed?" I asked.
"Nowhere."
"Me either," I said.
"Hey," he said, looking intent on trying to find out what exciting thing his feet may possibly do next, watching them so hard. "I have an idea."
"Yeah? What is it?" I asked.
He looked up at me and I was met with his green eyes yet again.
"Lets be runaways together."