Runaway

Dear Diane:

It was Friday afternoon, last winter. I had just come from school. I was reluctant to return home- my parents had been fighting for a long time. I couldn't do anything to stop them from arguing. Even if I could get my nerve up to ask then to stop, sit down, and talk to each other in a reasonable way, who would listen to a kid? Especially if that kid was only 13 years old.

Most people think that a person shouldn't get any say in matters until he/she is supporting the family, or at least that was DAD's opinion. I was studying Psychology then... but I get off the point.

As I neared the door and set my backpack down to grab the knob, I could hear Mom and Dad yelling at each other. Obviously you had failed your math test, and Dad had only now found out, even Mom got the report card last week. I stopped at the doorstep and looked up at the sky as if to say, 'God, why me?'. I couldn't just walk in now with everyone screaming and the door in plain sight. I sighed and sat down on the steps, my eyes closed. The wind blew my backpack over, and the contents spilled out. I whispered an curse under my breath, and started gathering my papers up, when I saw our pear tree, waving its bare, bony branches by my window (Remember when we used to race up that tree together? You always let me win) I finished packing up my backpack and hanged it up on a branch sticking out near the first handhold, and started climbiing.

Before long, I had both myself and my backpack on the roof, and began to edge towards my bedroom window. A beer bottle crashed through a window only two feet from me, and exploded on the pavement. Dad was drinking again. Hell hath no fury like a drunk, angry man. I do not know how you took Mom and Dad fighting that night, but I hope you didn't get hurt, like that one year with the broken glass. You are only three years older than me, 16, but for you, sixteen is not sweet. I came around a corner on the roof and opened my window, which I always kept unlocked just in case, you know.
I didn't have very many things, so my packing was short. Just underwear, pants, sweaters, and a couple pairs of socks. Under my mattress were $30 and some change, which I had been storing for months. Every weeks, I saved half of my allowance, which was $5 a week. That would be enough to survive on my own until I could get to the bank, with a thousand dollars in store, but thirty miles away. I finished pacing everything into my backpack, then went out of the house the same way I went in.


I've been living on my own for a year now, and I am sending this to you, Diane, my sister. Along with this letter is the address where I now live. Please don't tell Mom and Dad. Just send money to help me survive. My thousand dollars is running out, and I hope you can send a letter, like this one, too.

Your Brother in Hiding,
Mohorak