Johnny Orlando. Seventeen, and by day your typical kid; he gets good grades, plays almost all sports and loves video games. but by night?
Well that's the problem.
He has insomnia.
No treatment works for him, and they've tried it all- pills, remedi...
» Love is a promise. Love is a souvenir. Once given never forgotten. Never let it disappear. «
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☼ Mackenzie Ziegler ☼
✧
I wander aimlessly through the streets of London, upset and detached. Double decker buses race past me as I traipse along the pavement, even at this ridiculous hour of night. The stars are out, and so is the moon. I think of Johnny, then push the thought away.
I consider hopping into one of the stark red telephone booths and calling a family member to get me, but I've come too far now. They won't care. They didn't notice me today, they haven't noticed I'm missing, and they certainly won't care.
Happy eighteenth birthday to me, I guess.
I always knew I wasn't quite involved with my parents in the way that normal children are involved with theirs. I love them, they know that, but I had come to resent what they took for granted in their lives; me. It's my fault for becoming a doormat and doing exactly as they ask, but it feels like they don't appreciate how much I give up to help them. Dancing. Friends. Studying.
We just had a silent agreement that I would do exactly what I was told– in the end, that was detrimental to our relationship.
I keep walking, a lump forming in the back of my throat. I wonder who put the kids to bed tonight. I wonder what my parents are doing; whether they're sleeping already or still trying to coax the little ones into bed. I wonder when they'll remember they forgot my birthday.
And Johnny.
I wonder if he'll understand why I needed a break. Why I was a coward and why I ran. I ran away from the problems, ran away from everything that's new and scary.
Because that's what love is. It's new and scary and foreign and weird to me; I don't understand it one bit. I've never been in love before. I'm shy and weird and I can't stand up for myself or anyone else.
I hope he understands.
It hurts, thinking of them. Thinking of all the people that supposedly love me, but don't show it.
My feet lead me to a place that gives me comfort. The Blackfriars Bridge. And there, in the dark, watching the river, with nothing around me but the stars, I finally allow myself to cry.
At first I'm silent. I sniff and tears prick at the corner of my eyes. That doesn't last for long.
The lump in the back of my throat rises up into a sob, and I really let loose. Thick, hot and ugly tears stream down my face and drip onto my neck. I wipe them away routinely, but that gets to be too much. Instead I lean my elbows on the rail of the bridge and put my head in my hands. With shaking shoulders, I take raspy and unfrequent breaths.
