A/N: well done you're reading something! I'm in a sarcastic mood; and decided it's about time I stopped sitting and doing nothing and wrote something : so here we go. Welcome to the runaways universe.
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It was a dark stormy night once again; painting my mood in a blur of depressed tones and dying compassion slowly slashing at whatever little ambition I had abandoned in favour of heartbreak of a new sort. I sit at the old window; staring out at the abandoned village streets not far below me, and once again recall the feeling of overwhelming urge to throw myself to the concrete below and cut the long string of mistakes spanning my life short. However as I go to open the window, a familiar lock without a key now stopping me, I look down at my phone. It is new, and unfamiliar.
Unfamiliarity gnaws at every corner of my life. I wish I could say there were not resentment; but there is. That is not a thing that you nor I can deny.
But this time it was all different. Because whereas usually I would sleep only to repeat the lonely cycle of school, blank faces and elongated stares, I felt a tugging sensation in my heart and knew that I could no longer remain here. While it seemed like a split second decision, as I crept under the blanket of night to the closet and rifled quietly as possible to the bottom of countless boxes of make up - that did not belong to me - I knew it wasn't as I pulled out an old rucksack thought to be long broken. Purple, with only one strap left as the other had been pulled off as all it became was an aggrevation after breaking.
As I crept out of the shared room, cold biting at my feet, I knew this may be the last time I see this place. I felt along the small corridor and down the stairs, being sure to make no noise. I shuffle into the kitchen, my fathers loud snoring reminding me of a bear from the living room; and find my way around the darkened room. I check the time on my phone - 2:43 am - and then quietly slip on some old and barely fitting trainers. I had practiced all this plenty of times before hand so it came almost natural to me as I felt around the front of my backpack for a small smooth key, and unlocked the back door.
This house, alike all other houses here, was small. It was not broken, but it was not well kept either. The back garden was almost a wilderness, with trodden tracks through towering grasses making trenches for small children to run through, an old abandoned swing set at the end now ruthlessly overrun with stinging nettles like snakes climbing the poles, a tree overhanging, leaning on the tops as if a drunken man unable to stand on his own after a long lonely night. The inside of the home was not crowded but not empty. Filled with toys for a toddler, and make up boxes and shelves for the diva of whom I had shared a room with. More shelves in my own side of the room hidden behind bookshelves crowded with books. As a recluse I didn't really have friends and found it much easier to just bury myself in books.
That might be why it made it easier to leave. I stood in my garden recounting the unfamiliar familiarity of my house and the cold emotions of which came with it. I remembered if not for this escapade, as I grabbed my bike, that I would have had to attend school in the morning. As I swung the back gate open, it rattling and making me cringe inwardly as it almost fell of its hinges, I knew that soon the nights soothing blanket of silence and dark would be gone and I would be alone. With that in mind, I mounted the bike, and abandoned the girl named Holly in that house that had let her stay trapped as a bird in a cage; and rode out into the unknown.
