Hey guys :) another update x) I decided to write this as my narrative essay instead of my previous story, so please read~~ :)
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She ran away from home. What do you think of when you hear that sentence? Do you think of a rebellious person? Do you think of a person fed up with their parents? In actuality, I was both. I was ten. And, as any rebellious and greatly annoyed ten year old who thought her life was being restricted by two prison-guards of parents might think, I held the following statements as my “Philosophy on Life…so far” true: One, parents were old people who were living for nothing else other than enslaving their children; rolling in the enjoyment of their children’s displeasure. Two, parents were at all times unreasonable in any negative decision they made. And, three, that I was an assertive almost-adult who was independent and could practically live on my own. Which leads me to the running away from home part.
On one cold night in the middle of December… Just kidding, it was 2pm in June- so, yes, I wasn’t risking much. I had asked my parents if I could got to the park with my friend Tim. Well, they didn’t directly say no, but in actuality they never did- or so I felt. I also felt that they always dodged my simple questions with answers such as “clean your room first.” Granted my room wasn’t terribly messy to begin with and it would only take twenty minutes of shoving stuffed animals and mix-matched socks under my bed to get the job done. But, that wasn’t the point. The point was they always dodged my questions and asked for favors in return of their agreement to letting me go to the park. So, as the assertive ten year old I was, I decided to have a responsible conversation with my parents. Which mainly consisted of a logical argument about how my life wasn’t fair and how it was entirely immoral that I should be forced to clean my own room when I could be getting some fresh air; possibly eluding some form of a disease or another in that room of mine.
Well, they didn’t go for it. Which also deeply upset me. So, I decided to take another logical route in my actions. “If Injustice Become Law Then Rebellion Becomes Duty,” was the bumper sticker on the back of my dad’s red-neck friend’s truck. The bumper sticker that I decided to go by in my decision of muttering loudly- no, not screaming, that would be entirely too immature of a reasonable and responsible person like me- out the back door and into the woods behind our house.
I then decided that I could build a house in said woods and live there, by myself so I wouldn’t have to interact with those unreasonable parents of mine. And it worked. I found the tree a couple miles into the woods that I always climbed when I went hiking, and I began a fort. I started with relatively large branches around the base of the tree and stacked them on top of each other in a circular formation, leaving space for a door of course. Hours later, and I was finished. I then trailed further and further into the woods to seek any plant that I deemed looked edible. I then brought them back to camp and laid them next to the stream. No, not eating them, because I remembered hearing somewhere that if food (or was it water?) wasn’t clean then you had to boil it to purify it. But, I decided I’d have to figure out how to make a fire later- considering I probably didn’t have many hours of daylight left and still needed to find clean water. And I couldn’t possibly use that stream, because the water there simply wasn’t clean.
Well that day continued, and I furthered my search for necessary items to live off of- keeping a mental check list, of course, to make sure I wasn’t missing anything. I came back to the stream- arms heaving a large and heavy load of branches for that fire I was determined to learn how to make- and dropped them in a pile next to the stream and fort. And, that was when I realized something. Something odd. I crouched down next to the pile of leaves and picked up a few twigs; studying the leaves that looks ridiculously familiar. I gasped, dropping the leaves, and exclaimed a few curse words that a ten year old probably shouldn’t know, much less say. “Leaves of three let them be,” echoed through my head as I mentally slapped myself- Poison ivy. What was I worried and annoyed about? Not the fact that if I had eaten them I probably would’ve gotten sick, but about the fact that I would now have to go back to that insanely unjust house-hold to get some food.
I hiked, for seemingly forever, back to that house. I climbed up that steep hill, past the rotting tree-house, and around a rope course or two that my dad had made. And, finally, I was at the back door of my home. The biblical story of the “Prodigal Son” was going through my head, but I assured myself this was an entirely different situation.
I walked in the back door that led directly to our narrow yet brightly lit kitchen. I looked on the counter and saw a sandwich lying there with, quite literally speaking, my name on it. I took it with me down the hall and shut myself in my room. I can now only assume that my parents had a pretty good idea that, guessing through some personality traits of my character, I’d be back shortly. And, sure enough, it was only 3:45pm.
