Story cover for The Runner by Urwrstnightmare
The Runner
  • WpView
    LECTURES 551
  • WpVote
    Votes 29
  • WpPart
    Chapitres 7
  • WpHistory
    Durée 17m
  • WpView
    LECTURES 551
  • WpVote
    Votes 29
  • WpPart
    Chapitres 7
  • WpHistory
    Durée 17m
En cours d'écriture, Publié initialement mars 04, 2017
My real name is something forgotten. Something no one pays attention to. I go in and out of families, normally because of neglecting and abuse, and I've been all over the U.S. I've been to Kansas, Texas, Arkansa, Georgia, South Carolina, Virginia, Rhode Island, Maryland, and many other places. I never got the chance to go sight seeing or explore the state, but that changes for New York. I'm going to go through hell with my new family in New York. I'm going to run away. They're going to beat me, insult me, try to break me, but it's too late, I'm already shattered, they're late for that, and so then I'm going to run away for a longer time, and then they're going to beat me harder, and it will be a continues process until the foster system realizes I'm being abused. No one uses my real name, it changes every home. Even my foster parents don't call me anything. Recently, I've been known as the runner.
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I was kicked around like trash on the streets. I was the book that nobody could understand or read, but without a care, they were quick to rip out the pages. I screamed for attention, but time after time, I was ignored. Nobody noticed me, so I made myself at home in my own shadow. They say there's light at the end of the tunnel -- I searched and searched for it, but it could never be found. Therefore, I lost hope as I hid in the shade and endured what seemed like everlasting pain. The little hope I did have was snatched from my arms. My baby brother was my life, and they took my glimpse of hope away. Home. Is that a word? Maybe for a family of some kind, but for me, I never had a place to call home. I moved from place to place. Unstable foster care, fighting for my life in group homes, barely surviving in detention centers, and running away from being mistreated as I made many benches my temporary home. The only thing that I was familiar with was a black plastic bag containing my dirty rags. I am too young to know what it feels like to survive. These are the cards life has dealt me and I am not meant to win; however, I easily lose without trying. It is hard for me to find peace. I am paying for my mother's reckless actions. I am trapped in a world where the sun has died because I am unable to feel love. I am unable to dream. Sorrow is my aura, and the sadness hugs me. My eyes are closed shut by the barbed wire fence from my eyelashes as they prohibit tears from falling. I am damaged. When will the morning come? Did the sun put up a fight last night, like I do every single day? If I can survive the day, I know the sun isn't dead. One day, I will awake to a glorious sunrise. Until then, I hope my brother keeps blowing his pinwheel, and I will keep making wishes with every dandelion I come across. For now, all I know is that everything was taken from me, and the only thing I own is my name.