I know that look. The first night after I ran away, meaning almost twenty-four hours later, I saw my reflection in a puddle near the edge of a playground near a tree. I looked half-crazed, and I had been overcome by so much anger and hatred that I found a branch on the ground, and I just whaled on the tree with it. Splinters of bark flew everywhere, and I had splinters in my hands, but I didn’t care. I just kept attacking that tree.
Imagining it had been my father.
Yes, I have serious issues. I know that. I recognize that. I also know that there’s no one who can help me but me. I have to work through my sordid, sorry existence.
If I even can.
I just have to get by.
College. Everything will get better once I’m in college.
“You want me to work in the back? I’ll work in the back. I’ll do whatever you ask of me. Sorry I got a little out of line there. I was just frustrated about that jackass. We good?” I ask Max.
"We're good enough for now, 'pose," he says. "I just don't want any riffraff, ya hear?"
“Of course. No one wants that. No one wants the cops to come.”
He lifts his eyebrows. “You a runaway?”
“We’ve been over this. I’m saving up for my own place.”
“And you do have a place with your parents or someone?”
“Someone,” I echo.
I’m alone.
Except for the ghost of my mom.
My murdered mom.
Yeah, serious issues all right.