The Runaway

'So,' the guy nodded at me, 'why did you run?' I gave him a look that must have said 'why don't you screw yourself' but he just laughed it off, adding 'yo, we've all told you our story, you need to tell us yours.'

I started at him and then looked around the makeshift camp fire.

'I'm not a fan of the foster care system.' I said, shoving my hands in my pockets. The silent seemed to echo into the nature, the fire's cracks and the wind's howl responding to it.

'You're an orphan?' A voice, after a few seconds, asked from the other side of the fire.

In between the flames, I could see his face, covered in dust, and his run down clothes. His overgrown hair and his posture, the way one of his hands was gripped around a bag, like that was all he had.

Maybe because it was. He was one like us, like me.

'Half, I guess.' I adjusted my hood, the shadow castes on my face feeling strangely comfortable and safe to be hidden by it. I took my hands out and aimed them to the fire, grasping for any warmth in the cold night of December.

'Half?' I snapped my head toward a girl by my left who looked at me like I was an idiot.

'Yeah, half.' I hissed and stared the girl down. 'That's what happened when your mother was killed and your father was the murder.'