Catch Me

Chapter 1- Fight or Flight

Waking up locked in the closet had become a routine, something I had gotten so used to that I didn't really notice the damp air, and the cramping in my legs. Although only 15 years old and small for my age, a broom closet wasn't the most comfortable place for me to spend the night.

"Like he cares about your comfort..." The voice in the back of my head said.

He didn't. He cared about where his meals were coming from, who was cleaning his house and who he could pretend was his deceased wife (my mother.) Lucky for me, I filled all those qualifications and duties. I cleaned for him, I cooked his meals, and again, lucky me, I was replacement Mom, which meant he did horrible things, ghastly things to me, his own daughter, in an attempt to feel like Mom was there with us still.

Sick I know. But this was my life back then.

Fast forward twelve years, I was now 27 years old. I had moved on physically but still carried scars mentally. I had escaped from my past dreadful reality and made my own way in the world. From the time I was seven (when mom died) to when I was 15, I had lived under my father's perverse and tyrannical rule. Running at 15 years old from the only home I had ever known, and the only connection I had to the world was nearly impossible, but it had to be done. My father, passed out drunk in an armchair placed in front of my broom closet, had slipped off to sleep before he remembered to lock the closet where I slept. I waited and waited for him to shove the rusty key in the lock and leave me there for the night till morning, but he never moved from that chair. I waited with baited breath for what felt like hours and hours...days even, and still didn't hear one sound but his heavy snores. I slowly moved from my uncomfortable crouching position and pushed the wooden door open a crack.

He didn't move a muscle.

I had never run so fast, so far, in my entire life. To be able to get away from that house of horror was the most unbelievable dream. I was scared of course, I had never been allowed outside, never seen any other buildings, never met any other people except my mom and my "father." I had never had a friend, never had a birthday. As I ran and ran, I started to panic. I had no concept of money, maps or survival on my own. I had no clue as to where to go in a situation like this or what to do all by myself at 15 years old. I ran down the street, barefooted and only wearing ratty old sweatpants and a pull-over sweater, and tried to see if there was anyone who looked remotely friendly and trustworthy.

Eventually I would learn that although they may look trustworthy, they usually aren't deserving of that assumption.