Distrust was placed upon Connor's shoulders as midnight's silence tore his mistempered eyes open. Each precious second pounded, his heartbeat like a loathed drum that boomed crazily, yet the house remained silent.
He let the soft hum of the staircase cling onto his discoloured socks and mute the slight murmur that he left in his tracks; enough was enough.
The vast emptiness closed in as Connor's yelling fingertips clung to his dad's wallet, scavenging and capturing the leafy notes and credit cards. Then, systematically, came his mum's, to which he balled and scrunched a photo that rested inside like a public treasure chest of his family.
His dad wore a large, yellow raincoat that made his skin look even paler and sickly, while his black moustache spread along his face in bushy spikes like his goofy grin. Meanwhile, his mother was frowning and freezing; her small jumper provided no safe warmth as she clung onto her arms bravely. However, the frail woman was still submissive under the bleeding, battering rain. Her hair was a withering grey, a horrid blankness, and built up thickly in strands of chalky waves that contrasted her dark skin.
Then, was his sister, Holly, whom he adored until she moved out as soon as she left school to be with "her boyfriend" as she told the family. In the photo, her lips were chapped and pink. She was drenched yet pulled off the look, letting wet pieces if her hair tuck delicately behind her ears and the rest fall behind, clinging onto her back like vines. They shared many things, including their eye colour, although hers seemed to glow brighter under the flash of a cheap camera and in the rain-streaked pavement. Holly was quite a dominating figure, scolding him and restricting him as if she were his second mother. But, she was a good person.
Finally, came Connor. He wore an oversized yellow coat, similar to his dad's, with a fur hood. It cloaked over him, striking against his black hair and frame like the sun. Yellow was his favourite colour for some odd reason. It was such a lovely colour that always seemed to be awake. Perhaps that was the reason he was smiling in the photo.
Although now melancholic, the picture used to be the definition of euphoria, but that was in the past and the mawkish taste of isolation drugged the tip of his tongue.
The photo was still crumpled in his hands, weakened by whatever fragile memory laid dormant.
Briskly, he took the money out of their wallets and nabbed the tiny suitcase he'd prepared the day before. It was packed full of vibrant clothes that made him feel better about himself and the situation that was about to occur: running away.
Connor had met his physical and metal limitation of stress. It exploded from everywhere, covering the whole house in some thick, malevolent aura. Every since then, shouting.
His parents tried to keep things separate from the lives of their children with strict guidelines and rules that they clearly didn't follow. Similarly to piñatas, Connor truly believed rules were meant to be smashed to pieces as a form of teenage rebellion.
In the end, the mysterious paperwork got finished and both of his parents went to court together and his father came back...alone. Naturally, his mum came back home, but they weren't seen in the same room often, avoiding each other like the plague.
So Connor decided to run.
He nestled his head into the fur of his coat, feeling the warmth one last time before escaping the house and making as little noise as possible. It was raining, like in the picture, and each drop cascaded down. They tapped the hood of his coat solemnly and Connor could hear the subtle thumping of raindrops on his suitcase, also. Although the gentle rhythm surrounded him, it carried an earnest silence that blocked any other sounds out. Like piano notes, the rain fell and Connor turned to look back at his house one last time.
His house wasn't the biggest in the world. It had strong wooden frames, resembling more of a cottage than a normal 21st Century building. Still, the paint outside was a faded yellow and the dark door was scuffed around the edges.
He felt in his pocket for the money and his phone before rushing to the bus stop. Only then, was he sheltered from the quick, sadistic rain.
For a moment, he thought. He thought about the repercussions of his actions today and what his parents would think. Would they be mad? Surely they realised the mad one was him, just from the verbal nonsense spread around the house. He feared he was over reacting, letting the immense fear cloud his judgement. Yet the guilt of his actions didn't phase him. School wasn't safe and soon enough his house wouldn't be either.
The bus had arrived on time and Connor stepped in, taking his hood down and revealing his short black hair. The bus seats were never comfortable to sit on. When we was younger, most rides resulted in fidgeting and arguing until he either got to sit on his mother's lap or tire himself out.
He was older now: 16 years old. His mind still grumbled with arguments, but on the outside, he was still. The calmness resonated within his whole body. The rain was falling, fleeting, frolicking but Connor? Connor was idle.
