Runaway

     I think about leaving. All the time. Leaving this disgusting house. Everybody knows it’s disgusting. (I’m not even talking a little disgusting, it’s truly disgusting.) Walking out. Packing a bag. Hopping from one cheap hotel to another with a friend. 

     Only the best, the very best friends. Two souls against the world! You’ve seen the movies, but ours would be better, far better. Gas station snacks at 2 A.M., windows cracked open, stale air. Incredible. People would pay good coin to see it, truly.

     But nobody, I mean nobody, would come with me. My friends? Too comfortable. Too safe. They’ve got money, they’ve got stable families, and they have the luxury, the total luxury, of saying “haha, that’d be fun!” Then they go home. Warm homes. Stocked fridges. They’ll never actually do it. Why would they? Their lives don’t suck, mine does. How sad!

     And I can't go alone. You know it, I know it, everybody knows it. Dangerous out there. Girls like me? We get hurt. We get beaten. We get defiled. We vanish. Terrible, really.

     So here I am. Stuck. Stuck in this disgusting house (Believe me, it’s disgusting!), imagining escape routes that will never be. Watching my friends posting about their safe lives. Family dinners. Safety nets. Pretending that I’m not jealous. Pretending that I’m not angry. Pretending that I don’t long to rend someone asunder over it. I could. But I don't. Not yet.

     I hate it. I hate being jealous. I hate dreaming of a life I will never obtain. Freedom, they think it’s sport. Only when it’s optional. For me, it’s survival. And nobody grants me a chance. Nobody. Disgraceful. It’s a calamity.

     But I will do it someday. Believe me.