The Place We Ran From
PROLOGUE
A small, gaunt boy stood in the dark midnight kitchen. His feverish bare feet spread over the gritty tile and absorbed the chill, though he barely noticed. Weak, artifical light came from the fridge he raided as he stuffed his face with a tub of fried chicken. The oily matter plastered his cheeks, giving them a fatty shine.
He wanted to eat more but knew better. And, reluctantly, he pushed the leftovers back inside. Expeience told him if he ate too much too fast he would throw up. Or, worse, someone would notice what went missing.
Across the counter, in the living room, his younger sister sat on a stained frabric couch with a thin flannel blanket draped over her frail shoulders. The light of the plasma television flickered on her face, a variety of reds and blues. She stared at the screen, but her unfocused dark eyes made no indication she paid any mind to the vulgar cartoon.
"Do you think I live in Pretend Land?" An angry voice from the show asked.
"Well shoot, what's gonna make you happy?" A second, much more annoying voice responded.
"Pills. Okay? Give me some pills." The first voice demanded.
Shaking, the boy hunched over the kitchen counter. Exhaustion made his eyes red. He had grown so skinny over the months that his spine began to jut out like a saw beneath his white cottonshirt. Gentle moonlight that came in from the kitchen window gently wrapped around his feeble frame.
Pulling open one of the kitchen drawers, the boy pulled out one of several knives. Dried lettuce stuck to the steel as he held the handle in his sickly fingers. Light glinted off the blade as he waved the sides up and down gently.
He could do something. He had to do something. He couldn't survive here any longer. An idea came to him suddenly, and he had to act just as fast. Before he talked himself out of it.
Quietly, the boy stuffed more leftovers into a scuffy, mildew-scented plastic tupperware. He tucked his hoard into his pajama bottoms, then stepped out of the kitchen.
Guarding the knife with his body, he skulked past his slouched sister, whose absent stare didn't so much as flinch away from the television. Her lip was split, though the wound was several days old now.
"Go ahead man, let's do this thing." Pill Addict said from the screen.
"I told you I'm gonna do it! I'll do it now!" A new face replied; blowtorch in hand. The boy's eyes fell off the tv and onto the front door while the voices continued. If he left that way, his sister would hear him and panic. She could wake the whole house and cause a scene. Cause a beating.
Pill Guy poured gasoline over his body, "Okay dude, just did all the prep work. Let's get it on. Do it!"
The new face stammered for a moment, "Well, shoot- I- I mean I was just gonna sorta blow your jaw off with a firecracker or something. I wasn't gonna, you know..." He trailed off briefly. Then, shutting off the blowtorch, "I think I need to go pray."
The boy stepped into the shadows of the hallway, walking slowly towards his bedroom near the end of the corridor. Near the basement.
"Hey, that milkshake's got no guts, man." Pill Head said.
"You know, half the time just bein' around you makes me want to die." His friend said softly.
Quietly closing the bedroom door behind him, the boy made quick strides to his closet. Over his pajamas he pulled on a pair of jeans, two pairs of socks, his tattered sneakers, a dark green hoodie, and beanie. He padded towards the window.
After pushing the glass up, before he could talk himself out of it, the boy stabbed the screen with his knife and split it downwards. Through the hole, he heaved himself upwards and out his window.
His feet landed hard on the dirt road as he ran to town.
