He closes the door behind him. He puts his hands in his pockets as he jogs down his driveway.
He protects himself. Wanting a barricade between him and the rest of the world.
He follows the usual roads. He goes to the usual spot, with the usual people.
He isn't worried about his dad, he's probably glad he left. He would be glad if he wasn't already passed out drunk.
He ignores the looks and the whispers. They tickle his hear as he tries his hardest to ignore them.
He stops. He feels his once strong barricade start to fall. He watches it's collapse.
He hears the frantic screams and cries. He turns around, looking death straight in the face.
He has a couple of seconds to escape, instead he stands in the middle of the street mesmerized by the truck heading straight toward him.
He went away. For the first time in months. He didn't walk down the rest of the usual streets. He didn't make it to the usual spot. He didn't greet the usual people.
Instead, he was making new paths in an unusual place.
