I set the old, worn down pencil beside the piece of paper covered in gray scrawl. It was my note to Mother, telling her that I was running away to find help, and a better house. She was going to be proud of me for finding help. All these years, every time I tried, I got an extra beating from Father.
My gaze shifted to the black trash bag that lay at my feet. It had all I needed until I got to a better home; food, water, clothes, and a blanket. It would be cold on the Autumn nights ahead.
I returned my sight to the note and folded it in half, slipped it into the kitchen drawer that only Mother goes into, and picked my single bag up off the floor. I limped to the wooden door at the back of the house, turned the brass doorknob, and pushed. The chilly breeze that smacked my face made me shiver. I turned around and whispered a single word to the house I had grown up in: "Goodbye."
I silently shut the door behind me as my tennis shoes came in contact with the neat grass that surrounded Father's house, what I like to call as the 'Torture House'. The hill beyond me had few red, yellow, orange, and brown leaves scattered on it, Mother would have to clean that up later or Father will beat her like there is no tomorrow.
Cleaning the yard and the kitchen were the only ways for Mother to escape Fathers beatings. I had a whole list of stuff to do, which I always did perfectly, but never have I made a day without a new bruise or wound.
I walked down the hill, my pace gradually getting faster and faster. I had to get into the group of dying trees behind my house before Father came home. I entered the woods and slowed down, trying to calm my breathing.
"Jacob!" I heard a man roar. It sounded like Father's voice and it had said my name.
