Stockholm Syndrome

Chapter 1: Running Away

Wind banged the tree limb next to my basement door against the paned glass, awakening me from my sleep. Soon thereafter, I heard the sound of more glass, instead shattering from upstairs, this time not caused by the wind. My parents were fighting again. This was not a rare occurrence between the two of them. Dad was probably drinking and mom probably tried to talk about money or politics with him. I never understood how two people could fight so much and still hold the title of 'married.' But then again, I could never understand how a father could beat the shit out of his daughter either. And then I didn't understand why I put up with it for so long. But I did. And at the minimum, at least I had a place to sleep.

I laid awake in bed for what seemed like an eternity before I overheard my name in their shouting.

"She's fucking 22, still here. Not paying rent or insurance or anything. Doesn't even have a fucking job. Fuckin worthless little-"

"How could you say such awful things about your own daughter, Garrett? She had a job that caused her too much trouble, she is trying to go back to school soon. Give her a fucking break, would you?"

"I'll give her a fuckin break when I get some rent in my damn hands," he yelled back at my mom. I heard another bottle crash upstairs.

While I could usually handle their fights, I lost it when I heard them talk about me. Never had I ever heard my own dad talk so negatively about me. Tears began to well up in my eyes but I wiped them away quickly. It was time for me to leave, and fast, so they wouldn't hear me. Even if it was just for that one night, I had to get out of there.

My heart pounded in my chest as I stood up from my bed and slipped my skateboarding shoes on that were near the door. I had one hoodie to my name, which was okay; San Diego never got too cold during a rainstorm. I undid the lock on the door handle and then I turned the deadbolt to the left and bolted out the door. Not having a destination, I began sprinting down the street as far away from home as I could.

I grabbed my cellphone out of my pocket and dialed my best friend Tom. The one and only Tom DeLonge. He would know what to do. He was 3 years older than me, which would make him 25. I had known him since I moved to San Diego when I was 11; he was the first kid to talk to me on my first day of school. Since then, he was a member of Blink-182 and was married to a girl named Jennifer, though they hadn't been married long at the time.

I'd helped him through stuff, so I figured it was his turn. "Good lord, Raleigh," he answered in a scruffy voice, "do you know what time it is?"

I was shaking violently and my hoodie was beginning to become of no use to me as I walked down the hazy road.

"T-Tom..." I stammered, now crying because of everything that had been happening.

On the other line I could hear him trying to sneak around, probably to find an area in his house where he could talk to me. I heard a crash and heard him say 'shit', but then he focused his attention to me.

"Raleigh, what's wrong?"

"My parents. Tom...I need help," I shakily responded.

"Where are you?" he said, starting to sound concerned.

"I'm two blocks away from your house I think. I think the street sign says 'Cuhn'."

"Hold on Raleigh. I'll be right there. Do not move." Tom quickly ordered, then hung up.

No less than two minutes later, I saw headlights and heard a car squeal around a corner. The silver BMW pulled up, nearly coming up onto the curb. My heart started racing; I hadn't seen Tom in nearly 2 years.