The Failure and the Runaway

Chapter One

"Get out!" My mother yelled, staring at me in disgust. She pointed to the door, looking more and more mad every second. It was a serious situation, but I couldn't help it, I was laughing anyways.

She glared at me, probably horrified that she got stuck with me as a daughter. I tried my best not to laugh. I really did. I just wasn't very successful. I laughed so hard that it hurt and I was pretty convinced that I would never be able to stop laughing. She was so mad, and the face she was making was just so hilarious to me.

"You know, Carson, I warned you!" She spat in the perfect combination of repulsion and rage. "I told you that the next time I caught you smoking pot, or doing anything illegal, you'd be out of here! But you just never listen to me!"

I had stopped laughing, but I still couldn't concentrate on anything. I didn't even care that I was being kicked out of my home. All I could focus on was the angry way my mother looked at me, which was still pretty funny. She put her hands up to her head and ran her fingers through her short, messy brown hair in frustration.

"Mom." I rolled my eyes. "I'm not even high."

"That is it, Carson! Get out, now!" She screamed, practically pushing me to the door.

"Wait!" I said, feeling more amused than anything else. "This is my house, where do I go?"

"You think you're so much better off without me, figure it out yourself!" She growled, pushing me out the door and then slamming it in my face.

I sighed, walking away from the house. So that just happened. I really just got kicked out of my own house. I was too high to really care, so I casually went for a walk, like nothing even happened. The wind blew my caramel blonde hair around like crazy. I didn't even have a hair tie to put it up. I didn't have any of my stuff. All I had was the clothes I was  wearing. A black jacket with a grey cami underneath, a pair of skinny jeans, and my worn out black converse.

Once I managed to sober up a little, or maybe a lot, what had just happened really started to get to me. My mother had really just kicked me out. I knew she was serious, too. I knew she wasn't going to let me come back home, not now or anytime soon. And my dad was just as psycho as her, he'd without a doubt go along with it.

I was only 16, what the hell was I supposed to do? I've always wanted to leave, I couldn't stand my parents, the small town I lived in, or almost anyone in it. I'd always thought that just getting up and leaving would be one of the best things that ever happened to me.

But now that it was my reality, I knew that was as far from the truth as anything could be. I had nowhere to go. I had no real plan, just a bunch of unrealistic and nearly impossible ones that I've came up with over the years.

Leaving, or planning to, was more of a game to me, a way to escape reality. It was nice, because whenever I was upset, which was way too often, I'd just think about how it didn't matter, how'd I'd leave soon anyways, and then none of these idiotic people or problems would matter anymore.

Coming up with run away plans, places to go, how I'd do it, how I'd end up with the perfect life, it was all fun. But I always knew that none of my ideas were too realistic. It's not like I could ever make it to Paris without anyone noticing, or New York...or any of the big, wonderful places I planned to go. It's not like I'd be able to actually get rich and buy some big, beautiful place to live. None of my ideas were going to work, they were all just a game to me. I wish that I had thought them through better during all of my years of planning. But I didn't. So I only had one real choice.

Go back home. Go beg to be able to stay. Go deal with the consequences and punishments of it. Go deal with the small town and all of the drama and horrible, terrible people in it, and my parents, for two more years until I was 18 and could really leave.

That's the right thing to do, right?