Run.

Chapter 1

It was what he did that made me reach the breaking point. It was his actions that led me to just leave. But it wasn’t just that one moment, it was all of them. My dad, a desperate man wishing to be young at forty-seven, was mindlessly stuck in his daydreams. He was a single dad with four troublesome kids that he couldn’t do anything for. With his countless arrests and warrants, you would think this man was not a fit for a fatherly role, and he wasn’t. He tried, for fourteen years all alone. He struggled with the position he was left with when my mother died at age thirty. They were never close. I always remember the fighting and the shrieking. My perspective on love might be a bit warped, but I get it. Love comes with consequences. They fell in love young, had a kid. Thought they could handle the world, had another. Knew they were going to make it and had yet another child. Then there was me. The “extra” as my father sometimes refers to me as. I wasn’t intended to happen, but I did. My oldest brother, Ethan, age twenty-eight, is off who know where, doing who knows what. Next comes Mary, who’s is currently twenty-six and in jail for countless illegal acts. Joey is praying that he will graduate this year. He’s seventeen, almost eighteen and an absolute drug addict. Then there’s me, fifteen-year-old, Eleanor Marie. My parents were so surprised with me, that they gave me not one, but two names. I go by Eleanor, but if a person really knows me then they call me Elle.

My dad has a short fuse, so do I. My quick-temper must be from him, and it’s not a good trait to inherit, I’ll tell you that. It started with a god, awful sentence. “I told you to stop leaving your stuff everywhere,” he yelled as he walked in the door from work. I rolled my eyes at his grouchy comment. He should’ve been thankful someone’s doing the dishes and taking out the trash, instead of yelling over a school bag lying by the family room armchair. Long story short, he yelled, I yelled. He threw a plate, I ran upstairs. He went into his room, and I packed my bag. He took a smoke, and I ran. And now I’m all-alone, sitting against a brick wall, thinking. I can’t go back. I’m done. Next time it won’t be a plate. Next time I won’t be able to run.

The stares of the little slurs I get are almost laughable considering the fact that I honestly look like an innocent and abused teenage girl. My makeup is running down my pale cheek while my blonde hair is tousled and knotted. My school uniform was wrinkled and I was holding an overly loaded backpack in my lap. All alone and nowhere to run to, I’m basically lost.

In my mind I began to think of places I might be able to go. I haven’t seen my grandmother for three years now. All of my siblings are out of the question. My uncle doesn’t like my father; therefore, I’m not welcome. My friends, well I don’t know about them. Knowing the ones I have, they wouldn’t welcome me with open arms. I have a cousin though, Cory. He lives in Los Angeles trying to, “make it.” He has this band, The Fireheads. They sound like crap and they look like a big bunch of homeless druggies. It was better than nothing I guess.

It was ironic that today was the day I ran away. Today was the day my mom ran years ago. It was the day when she lost it with my dad, much like I did. She grabbed a bag, and ran out the front door. She slammed it so hard it woke the entire household. I remember getting up around 3:00 in the morning confused. I got up and I looked down over the landing that overlooked the living room. I saw my father fiddling with the door knob, trying to open it once more. His drunk hands unable to open to door. When he finally opened the big wooden door, he yelled, “Get your sorry self back in here or you’re never welcome back. You here me?” He waited a couple seconds before speaking again. “Fine, I don’t want you back either.” He slammed the door just like my mother. He saw me standing over the landing. “Get in bed,” he said sternly. I scurried into my shared bedroom with my sister and climbed under my warm covers. I never saw my mom again. I swore she was coming back the whole week. I sat by the door, and looked out the window. I remember frantically running to the phone every time it rung.

When we got the call about the accident I thought my life was ending. They believed that she stood out in front of the car in an act of suicide. I didn’t know what to do with myself. That’s why I guess you can understand my warped sense of love and life in general. I think it was an accident. My mother would never be suicidal. I’m sure of it.

Growing up, my mom never seemed sad or mad at my father. I don’t know how she married him. She filled every request of his with a smile. I still wonder why she broke that one night. Why she just left without saying goodbye to me. I guess I just reassurance that she still loved me, even though she left.

A single tear fell from my ocean blue eyes. I wiped the tear away, and tried to wipe the flashbacks from my mind. I brought my knees to my chest and watched the people pass. All of them had things to look forward to. Most of all, most of them had homes to go to. By home, I don’t mean the building. I mean a place where people who actually love you are there, to welcome you home every day. I don’t think I’ve ever had that since my mom left. It was depressing, and I was absolutely sick of it.