A Long Way Home
Well, here I am- 24 years old and driving through two states just to get away from the chaos I used to call home. My name is Storm, and I am on my way to start over, headed straight for my best friend Luna's place in the quiet town of Willow Creek. She is the only person who has ever felt like family since...everything changed.
After my mom died, the house didn't feel like mine anymore. Hell, nothing did. My dad didn't wait long-not even six months-before remarrying some perfume-drenched gold digger who cared more about diamond tennis bracelets and luxury handbags than the ashes of the woman who built our home. I swear, they were practically screwing in the same bed that my mom died in. He
Dad claimed he was working late nights, always out when she was sick. But come on, who the Hell works overtime every weekend in the middle of the summer? Not him. Not anyone who gives a damn.
So, I packed up my life- the parts that were actually mine. My clothes, my makeup, the art supplies I scrimped and saved for, and every single sketchbook and tattoo stencil I ever poured my soul into.
I shoved everything neatly into the back of my dusty equinox. Not a single item bought with his money. Every piece of it? Mine. Earned with late nights hunched over fake skin and real arms, slowly proving to myself that maybe, just maybe, I could be more than just someone's broken daughter.
I had just put in an application for a dusty old storefront about two miles from Luna's house. The windows were cracked, the paint chipped, and by the looks of the pictures, it needed some work. But I saw something in it, it could be the first step toward building my own shop-my own space. Not Kat Von D-level or anything (not yet anyway), but real. Honest. Mine.
"Let's go Thorn," I called out as I grabbed my black duffel bag full of ink, guns, gloves, and binders packed with my best work. My girl barked and leaped into the car with practiced ease- first the back seat, then right into the empty passenger seat like she knew this was our escape. Our shared little rebellion. She leaned over and licked my cheek once before settling in, her ears perked and alert like she could sense that we were headed toward something different. Something better.
Thorn is a one-year-old Doberman that I had found half-dead in a cardboard box during the worst snowstorm I have ever lived through. She was just skin, bones, and whimpers when I found her, buried beneath slushy snow near the gas station. I wrapped her up in my hoodie, cried the whole way to the vet, and swore I'd never let anyone hurt her again. And now she's mine- sleek, strong, loyal, and just a little wild. Kinda like me, honestly.
I slid into the driver's seat, heart thudding beneath my ribcage, and turned the key. The engine groaned to life, and the GPS told me it would be 398 miles to Willow Creek. Almost 400. I sighed, rolled my shoulders, and shifted the car into drive.
"This is it, girl," I said glancing over at Thorn. She had her head out the window already, ears flapping, tongue out, soaking in the breeze like she had waited her whole life for this moment. I smiled.
The sky was a watercolor blend of oranges and pinks, sunset bleeding into the horizon. My playlist hummed low through the speakers- gritty indie rocked with old punk, just enough edge to keep me awake. The road stretched out ahead, long and winding, like a thread tying me to a future I hadn't stitched together yet.
But at least I wasn't alone.
Here is to brand new beginnings.
