The Runaway

Twisted. Tangled. Smothered.

Sweat soaked sheets are clinging to the skin, like another layer stretched out too far. The moisture pressed between the two films is seeping out like water from pores. The air is hot and dry, too thin for the lungs to really grasp. Too harsh for the body to take in.

In. Out. In. Out.

“Hey sis, when are you gonna come home?” My ever overly concerned brother asks through the phone.

“Geez dude chill. I haven’t even been gone for two months.” I snicker.

“It’s so quiet without you here. It’s creepy.” He says it so seriously, but I can totally imagine him making that stupid face he does when something grosses him out that I can’t help the snort I let out just thinking about it.

“I’m serious! I can probably drop a pin and hear it now! Not to mention Mom and Dad are always working so no one is ever home to make food!” He whines.

“I’m not your personal chef boy.” I roll my eyes, “You know how to use a microwave at least.”

“Hey, I’m not that bad!” He tried to defend himself but scoff. “I do have one serious question though.” His tone changed so quickly, it takes me a second to sober up.

“Sure, what’s up?” I twist the cord around my finger.

“Did you ever think about anyone but yourself when you called me that night?” He jeers.

Breathing faster and faster, taking in gasps now. Chest painfully heaving, back arching, skin going cold. Nails scraping and digging at skin in a desperate manner, an attempt to rid the crawling feeling just below the surface. Itching, crawling, tingling sensations burrowing deeper into the negative spaces.

Until...

I open my eyes to the rising golden streams of sunlight through the window. Peeling the sheets away, slowly moving to stand, I get up to face the day. It's humid outside; the floorboards are warm under the soles of my bare feet. The house is dark, even with the sun pouring in at random places, but it's still easy to move around. Coffee started at the same time each day, glancing out the window, the trees are lush and green with life from the summer sun. The room smells old, old wood, moth balls and the air is heavy with its film of smog.

There's a draft in the room.

It’s quiet in the dingy little cabin. Nothing but leaves rustling outside and the wind smacking at the soft baby blue shutters. My feet pad softly across the floor, moving for the door to enter the rest of the household. Not a single sound. No chattering family. No tv noises playing in the background. Not even the sound of bickering. Nothing. Just, empty.

Then there’s something making a noise in the kitchen.

My phone. Right on time.

"Good morning hun." My Mother says. Her voice sounds full of forced cheer. False enjoyment to have any form of contact with me I’m sure. ‘Can you really blame her? After what you did?’ I chase away the ghosts inside my head, trying to focus on the mockingly delightful tone she uses whenever I do something right.

Here we go again.

"Morning.” I sigh.

"Have you eaten yet?" She asks.

"Coffee’s brewing.”

"Have some toast and jam, too. The strawberry one Nanna made is delicious!" She confirms for me like I’ve never had it before even though I was eating that stuff for years.

"Okay."

"So what are you going to do today?” Her question is pointless. She knows what I'm going to do today

because it’s the same thing I've done since I got here, but I'll humor her. For now.

"Have breakfast, water the plants, maybe go into town for a new book." I say. It's hard to sound

alive, but lying has gotten easier. ‘Watch what you say, how you say it. Otherwise you’ll fuck up like always.’ Shut up already. ‘No wonder you guys fought so much.’

"Finished the last one already?" She sounds shocked but I know she's not. She likes to pretend

that everything is the same. That we’re one perfect, happy family. That it’s all smiles and normal and that this is just a faze.

It’s not. We’re not, no matter how much she wants to pretend. We can never go back to that.

"Yeah. Last night."

“You need to get out more sweetie, you're probably as pale as a ghost!" She laughs.

"Okay.” I tell her. The coffee pot stops grumbling, and I go over to pour a cup, popping a Prozac and Clozapine in my mouth.

"Well, I've got to go dear. I'll talk to you later!" She says.

"Goodbye."

“Goodbye dear.”

It's already 9 a.m., I guess she's calling later and later in the mornings now. Makes sense, I

wouldn't want to talk to me either. ‘Who does?’ The sun is bright today, I'm almost scared to go outside.

My eyes hurt.

Mom was right, I need to get out more. Moving out the sliding door, a wave of humid air washes over me.

It's going to rain.