Escaping Flatlines

Chapter 1

I have run and run and what, run some more? Running has been all I've known, being a runaway at the age of 8, now 16 through these times of hell, literally. People talk and talk and run their mouth on how great they think the world is, how we are gradually on the brink of evolution, into the next faze of human life. A bloody hoax, that's what that is.

• • • •

I stretched my finger and pressed it against the cracked mirror, cold and fragile. Dead stormy eyes met mine. Fraey Richards, patient 0689, that crazy Latina chick "On The Run" as they say, haven't heard of me? What rock have you been squashed beneath? Broadcasted in every channel, billboard, article, I was known as an escapee from a psychiatric hospital in Florida, St Sanders on the 4th block, or, that's what they would like you to think.

District 0047
Where they ridiculously trained young boys and girls alike in a disclosed location, dumped in the middle of evergreen stretching on for eons. Every damn path, every tree appeared the same. Most of the time, each "escapee" wouldn't last in the forest, somehow returning to the stone fortress echoed as home overnight. I used to be one of those mindless robots, eyes as soulless as their own movements. The government isn't better than your typical sketchy business corporate, ready to coverup any mishap brought to their attention.

Who's in charge? I wouldn't know.

Normally, I appeared ghastly, but today? Nada. That was an understatement.

The bathroom floors were rat infested, every tile slathered with brown slimy guck, cobwebs hidden in every nook and cranny of the walls. Actually, they used to be lovely pale blue walls, my lovely pale blue walls, now tumbling with bullets, curved scratches, holes, blown out concrete, presently embedded in the bathroom enclosure.

Uncertainly, I brushed my pale hands across my face. My faded rosy lips were dry and cut as my cheeks disgustingly covered with specks of mud. When was the last time water ran through these rusted pipes? I shoved my lilac highlighted bangs to the side, revealing a slice across my forehead meandering down my left cheek, crimson staining my favourite vintage Queen top, a 70s classic.

"Shit, Dorthy is going to murder me," reminiscent of Dorthy, my bitchy older hag of a sister, with mesmerizing emerald eyes, porcelain skin, a doll of a face, plump peachy lips and not to mention, a waist petite curving with hips to kill for, a total boy magnet?Check. Would you even be surprised if girls asked her out every other day? She was grudgingly adorable. Nonetheless, she had a psychotic obsession, utterly dropping onto her knees at the slightest breath of the band; Queen. Not to mention, her vintage 70s classic Queen top I borrowed, merely two months ago from her wardrobe.

The year was 2020, and shit hit the fan. I take a shaky breath as I lean on top of the sink, well, what used to be a sink. From all these years of searching for something, anything through the mud, sweat and tears, I tried to resume a normal teenage life. When along the road, I was taken in by a foster family, the Richards. They had a standard American home along the venue, where a cycling race was going to take place, a backyard springing sunflowers, dandelions, purple tulips (my personal favourite), lilies and so much more! A neatly groomed patch of grass showcased the burst of flora with pride. Cubed shaped hedges outlined the aqua marine pool filled with a pink doughnut float, a rubber green sea horse, blue stuffed whale and an orange tortilla float. In all honesty, I tried not growing hungry at the sight with every colour drawing me in.

A lengthy hall stretched between the front door and living room where Jay, a ginger hulk of a father, but gives bear hugs despite his manly looks, on the left holds a marble kitchen beaming with mouth watering aromas snaking upstairs where three bedrooms stood.

In a few minutes, I heard shouting, crashing and booming thuds until three kids had their eyes curiously glued on me, each of them gripping the rails of the staircase. They each tilted their heads with acute timing. Two of them were identical twins, Susan and Samual, as the eldest Dorthy (I wondered if she had red shoes and... she got offended), glared me up and down before snatching me upstairs into what I call a jungle, as she calls our bedroom.

I didn't have to run, hide or seek food, shelter for the night. I didn't have to steal, cheat and lie my way through to another day. And I sure as heck didn't have to continue my only source of coin downtown begging on the streets. Absolutely not was I going to resort to that if you get the gist. As a 16 year old, what else could you do?

• • • •

I take a shaky breath as I twist my body around to face the door head on. The door had rusted from being in the open air for awhile, that smooth gold layered with blots of bronze. Twisting the handle, I look out into my next move.

-To be Continued-