CHAPTER7
Despite my stomach grumbling, I ignore my hunger and spend the next two hours doing all of my homework. Most of it isn't that difficult, at least. I've always been bright. I don’t always get straight As but pretty close. I’ve always been motivated to get away from my father and his way of life. A solid education will be the ticket. I just didn’t ever realize that I would need to first get out of Dodge well before I graduated high school and attended college.
To say that my life has taken an unexpected turn is an understatement. It's a fucking roller coaster, and I have no idea if the harness is going to keep me safe or if the next loop is gonna jar me loose, and I'll plummet to my death.
No one at the library pays me any mind, which suits me just fine. There are people of all ages here, all quiet and respectful. Why can’t high school be like that? But that’s too much to ask.
I gather my items and head to the grocery store. My arms ache as I push the cart around. It doesn’t matter that I dumped my books onto the bottom half of the cart so my arms have a break. I still have to push their heavy weight around.
Brett’s right. I don’t own a backpack. I just have a small bag with a few items in it. It’s too small for all of these books, plus it’s filled with my clothes. I fold the clothes up real tight, so there’s actually two weeks’ worth inside, plus some toiletries. That’s all I have. Oh, and the extra pen I swiped off the floor at the high school and then one here at the library.
And my wallet, which is going to soon only have flies buzzing out of it.
Granola and protein bars. Peanut butter and jelly. Canned tuna. A loaf of bread. That’s all I buy for now. It’s not much, but it’ll have to do for now. The bars will make a quick and easy breakfast. I can make sandwiches for lunch and dinner. It’ll get old quick, but I have to make my money last as long as possible. If I planned on leaving for months, I could’ve set aside a crap ton of money. I could’ve been set for anything and everything. I might’ve even had enough to secure an apartment before starting school.
But everything happened so fast. I had no choice but to get out of there immediately. I’m lucky I even had time to pack up clothes at all.
The sight before my eyes is something I’ll never forget, and the smells are even worse—the stench of blood, the stank of loosed bowels. It’s probably my imagination, but I swear I can smell the rank of decay, too.
A strangled cry emits from my lips, the sound foreign to my ears. Without hesitating, I race out of the room and up the stairs to my room. I lock the door and race over to my closet, yanking clothes off hangers, not caring that some shirts and a dress crumble to the floor. I grab whatever I can, roll them up, and cram them into my bag. I've never been more grateful to have a bathroom attached to my room, and I grab my small toiletry bag that's always packed and ready for a spur-of-the-minute trip. I shove that into my bag and shove it over my shoulder.
Then, I’m climbing out of my bedroom window, onto the awning, and jumping onto the tree. I scramble down, the bag bouncing against my back. My heart is beating frantically, and I can hardly breathe. One thought pulsates in my brain, repeating itself in my mind until it becomes a mantra.
I have to get out of here. I have to leave. I have to run away.
I have to get out of here. I have to leave. I have to run away.
I have to get out of here. I have to leave. I have to run away.
I never once looked back, and I never regretted leaving.
I still don’t regret leaving. I had no choice. Even though staying longer might’ve meant I could live in luxury compared to my living conditions now, I also could very well be dead instead of alive.
I don’t want to die, thank you very much.
Some of the food items are on sale, and I manage to spend less than I feared I would have to. I’ll have to be back soon. The bread will go quickly since it’ll be used for multiple meals a day, but I lack a microwave and oven and fridge. My options are severely limited for the time being.
Head held high, I accept my change and wheel the cart out of the store and keep on marching. Yes, I’m stealing the cart, but I don’t care. I’m not sure my arms can handle the trek if I have to carry my books and the food bags. At least the store isn’t that far from my perch, only twenty-five minutes. I left my Fit Bit behind, but there’s no doubting I got my required steps in today.
The buzzing of the cars speeding by on the highway already sounds like home as I settle into my place. It's not really a place at all, not even a shack. No walls at all, but there is a roof of sorts. I live under an overhang of the highway.
It’s only temporary, of course. I’ll only be here as long as I have to be, which hopefully won’t be that long. Tomorrow, after school, I’ll start looking for a job. It doesn’t matter to me where it is, doing what, so long as the Mutineers never find out where I work. My father is rich, and I never had to work a job, but I did anyhow. It wasn’t anything special, just a small gig at a floral shop. The only reason why I worked there was because my mom did. Not that she got me the position, and she only worked because she wanted to. Father made more than enough that Mom could’ve stayed at home if she wanted to.
She didn’t want to, though, and I can’t blame her.
But the floral shop was where Mom was the happiest. No, out in a garden, getting her hands dirty, playing with the bulbs, digging holes, rooting out weeds… when she was trying to coax nature to beautiful life, that was when Mom was the happiest.
I didn’t share her love of plants, but I loved seeing Mom outside of the house as much as possible. I’ll never forget the day I signed up to work there.
I wait until Mom's sick to go to the floral shop. I've stopped in time and again, and most everyone knows me.
Greta’s working. She and my mom are really close. It helps that Greta loves flowers as much as Mom does, not to mention Greta owns the floral shop.
Greta beams when she spies me. As soon as she’s done helping a customer, she motions me over. “How’s your mom feeling?”
“She should come in tomorrow, and you want to know what will make her feel even better?”
“What?” Greta asks suspiciously.