When We Run.

The first thing that hit me was the smoke. A thick, heavy mass of dust and exhaust and ash that settled in my lungs and threatened to asphyxiate. Nothing like the crisp, clean mountain air I'd grown accustomed to for the past 17 years. At all. But this was why I left, I reminded myself. Change.

Change was good.

It took me six steps to realise what an idiot I was. Defeated, I sat down and sobbed.

What the hell was I doing?

 

 

FLASHBACK

 

 

The sound of china breaking downstairs snapped me from the mundane spell I was under whilst making my bed. A faint shudder ran through me, and I closed my eyes, as if in some pathetic attempt to expel myself from the confines of the tiny bedroom, the house, the world. As I reached beneath the too small bed and pulled out the ridiculously small penknife – there was another unsettling smash, and then the unmistakable sound of skin hitting skin.

“WHORE!!”

The words pierced me. They might as well have been the blade I clenched in my fist. I stared at the blade, watching the light from the cheap electric bulb dance on it's metallic surface. It looked too simple. It could kill me at any moment. It could plunge right into me in a million different ways and rip and tear everything inside, were it not all broken and shredded anyway. It was an oddly liberating thought. It could just take my life, this small piece of metal, and leave me nothing but a mass of decomposing flesh providing shelter for maggots and flies and other parasites that would feed on my worthless shell. And then a tangle of unidentifiable weeds would grow from my bones and all traces of me would be gone... With nothing but the tangle of plants and perhaps a few rags to suggest that I, a human being, no matter how miserable an excuse, had lived, and breathed -

And died. Right here. In my own home.

I couldn't even move. So I'd made the choice.

Like the coward I was.

I'd left. The prospect of being killed, raped, or beaten in the streets was better than this hell.

So like the bastard I was, I'd thrown all my worldy posessions ( a few clothes, my wallet, a cell phone, and an incredibly battered copy of Playboy) into a duffel and scrambled out the window.

 

 

It was easy to slip off from the conservatory roof as there were several feet of crisp white snow to break my fall. I stumbled for a few steps, already feeling my feet turn into icy, soggy mush (damn you Converse, and your lack of protection). I didn't turn. I didn't look back. I could have left my Mother to die at the hands of that twat but I was too weak to fight back. Weak. Mentally. Plysically.

Weak.

I kept a steady pace until I reached the tiny platform that was Allentown Station. I jammed 25 cents into the ticket machine and curled up on the awkwardly built seats. And slept until the next train arrived.

 

 

END FLASHBACK

 

 

People were bustling all around me – I doubted Allentown's entire population could have rivaled Platform Seven. Furiously rubbing my eyes, and hoping I didn't look too much like a hobo (what with the puffy eyes, hastily layered clothing and generally depressed demeanor) I sat up and began to march to the cafe at the end of the platform. I couldn't care less what they served or who was in there, the golden light it was spilling over the platform looked far too inviting to be ignored.