RUNAWAY'S GUIDE TO FINDING HOME

Chapter One: A Cruel Existence (JoJo)

There are two kinds of people: those who observe and those who ignore. Those who observe are the ones who notice the smallest--yet most important--details, while those who ignore cannot seem to see or at least understand them. For years I believed that the world was full of nothing but those who ignore. Every person I came across was either inconsiderate or blind.

My name is JoJo Threshner. I grew up used to cruelty. My father was a brutal man and my mother always turned a blind eye to everything he did. After my father was incarcerated and my brother committed suicide, mother spiraled into an abyss of drugs and alcohol fueled by guilt. I grew into someone who did everything in their power to go unnoticed throughout the world. I kept my grades average, didn't participate in any extracurricular activities, and spoke to no one. In return, people didn't speak to me. The only thing that ever brought me out of my rotting hollow of self-pity was my passion for writing, of which I shared with nobody--not even my mother. It was the only way I could release myself from my pent-up pit of rage.

My only joy, for the longest time, were my writings. I thought it would always be. But let me tell you--I was not expecting what was to come when my mother moved us from our shabby home in Colorado to an even shabbier apartment in Cartersen, California. Mother said it was a 'new chance to leave the past behind.' Maybe she was right, but I remained apathetic. Moving to another state wasn't going to change a thing, not for me, and certainly not for my ghost of a mother. At least, so I thought.

It was only a day after we had arrived in Cartersen that Mother announced I was attending the nearest high school that morning. It was no surprise of mine, since I knew Mother's habits. She wanted me out of the house so she could have her 'fun time.' In Colorado, I would almost always come home to her passed out on the couch, a bottle of vodka in one hand and a blunt in the other. I wanted so bad to reach out to her, grip her shoulders, and scream at her to stop, stop this madness. I loved my mother, and I despised this hole she was trapped in. I was afraid she would be buried inside of it and suffocate until her breath finally left her. Yet, I knew I couldn't convince her that my father's flaws were not her fault. She had been afraid, too. We were a family of cowards. Of course, I still feigned my indifference. 

Mother had come into my room with her normal withered smile on her face. She knocked on the wall of my room loudly until I finally groaned, "What?" 

I saw her staring down at me, arms crossed. "Are you ready?"

I furrowed my eyebrows. "For what?"

She gave me a confused look. "For school. What else? Didn't I tell you?" I sighed. One of the main side effects for her addiction was the memory lapses. Sometimes she'd think she had told me something, but didn't; sometimes, she would forget completely. I was used to dealing with it. I just stared at her, awaiting further explanation. She shrugged and clicked her tongue. "Oh, I'm sorry, JoJo, love! I must have not mentioned it. I enrolled you in Cartersen High over the phone, before we flew up here. I figured you would want to start making friends right off the bat!"

I didn't respond, and slid out of bed. If only she knew my conflict with these....social situations. I always put on a show for her. The drugs made her emotional, and I never wanted her to overreact to the fact that I had no friends. She wanted the best for me, though she couldn't even provide the best from herself. So, I made up stories about my classmates, telling her little white lies about my relationships with my imaginary friends. If I acted sad, it would only make things worse for her.

"Thanks, Mom," I said finally, to where she wrapped me in a a strong embrace, to which I stiffened. As always, she smelled of whiskey and pot. She left me to my own device. I grabbed my normal black hoodie and jeans--inconspicuous and unnoticeable. Fashion wasn't my thing. I dragged myself to the bathroom. My short, gleaming black hair fell over my pale silver eyes. I looked like my mother, before her face became withered with the effects of her pain and addiction. I looked like her from all those years ago, when our family was happy. Before my father went mad and Evander hung himself upon that old oak tree in the woods. My mind flashed back to hikes in the Rockies, to ice cream at Cold Stone, to days spent in the snow during those cold winters in Colorado....