G/t I Guess

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Rich couldn't think. He didn't know what to think. His mind was running a thousand miles an hour and still no ideas came. All the events of the past two hours were still fresh in his mind, and now he had no idea what to do.

So there he stayed, sitting by himself, outside in the cool chill of the October night, in the crook of a tree root, huddling into his blue paper-thin vest that did next to nothing to keep him warm. If he knew what time it was, it didn't matter; 10PM? 3AM? He didn't even care at this point; he was still alive, that's all that mattered to him now.

His father had always been abusive, there was no doubt about it, and now that much was finally clear when Rich actually took the time to think about it. Whenever they had fought, his dad would be the one to start it, usually with drunk accusations, sometimes even blows and kicks, uncoordinated and sloppy but still powerful. Rich was never really able to fight back, he was quite short for a borrower, but he was tough, and took it calmly and cleverly each time. Being smaller meant he was quicker, and being sober was most certainly an advantage.

However, it didn't help, the fact that he was often stuck doing most of the borrowing, and that without a proper teacher he never really knew what he was doing most of the time. His lack of borrowing knowledge had almost gotten him caught on multiple occasions. In his inexperience, he couldn't always get at much so a lot of nights he went to sleep hungry. Whatever he did manage to borrow that he didn't hide was normally consumed immediately by his drunk excuse for a father.

The built-up pressure and tension from the years of anger and fear had all shattered the night his dad discovered Rich's secret food stash. He'd relentlessly screamed profanities at him, despite Rich's desperate attempts to calm him down; someone could hear them, it wasn't safe to yell. It was difficult to decipher what had really happened, it came and went so fast, but in the end, all Rich was left with was a burned house, an alcoholic corpse of his father discovered on his way out, still-ringing ears from the deafening sirens of human fire trucks, a few of his precious personal belongings tucked in his bag saved before he escaped, several cuts, bruises and burns left and right, and a red streak in his light brown hair. He didn't know if it was blood or some weird unknown substance, but when he caught a glimpse of his reflection in some broken glass, he was still in a frantic hurry to get away and in too much shock to question it, so he ignored it.

Then it was silent. It was the calm after that horrible firestorm he'd just experienced. After escaping the smoldering wreckage, he ran. He ran as fast as he could and ran far, far away. When he couldn't run anymore, he walked. He kept going, and he didn't stop until he knew he'd never be going back to that hellhole. It might have been blocks, maybe miles, he didn't know; all he knew was it was distance, and that was enough to put him at slight ease, enough to pause and rest.

Still shell shocked by that disaster, Rich now sat, drained and lost, physically and emotionally. Sure he wasn't in his old house anymore, for which he was grateful, but now what? He didn't know where he was, and any humans living nearby were a complete mystery. Moving into any of those homes would be a full gamble. After settling his nerves enough to think somewhat clearly, he finally decided that if he was going to move it was probably best to do it now, with the cover of darkness.

In spite of his body's protest at movement, Rich forced himself to stand on his feet and looked around. He'd wound up in some suburban neighborhood, probably not unlike the one he'd previously been in. Glancing at the houses, Rich quickly realized how exhausted his brush with death and desperate flee for his life had made him now that the adrenaline was wearing off. It wasn't difficult to decide that his best bet was likely just the house closest to him, at least for now. If it didn't work out, he could always move again, there were plenty of options; it was just a matter of not dying in the process.