Snake Bite Heart With a Bubble Gum Smile

The party has been over for hours now. I haven't moved from my spot on my bed since I got up here. I was not asked to go downstairs and say "good bye" to the guest as they left. No one has bothered me in the span of time.

They may have forgotten about me. I wouldn't doubt it.

The television is blaring downstairs. Music is blasting from the study. The microwave and sink are running. There is yelling; most likely Alex and his friends. The noise is frustrating.

I need to get out of here before I go insane.

I push myself off my bed.

I can't go out the front door. They won't let me walk alone. All I want is to be alone. I want to get my thoughts in order. I want to figure out what I want to say to them when we talk about the past.

If that ever happens.

I pull a sheet of paper and pen off my desk. The pen glides across the paper, leaving its black ink in the form of words. Words that say "Going for a walk, be back later".

I put the paper on my pillow.

Hopefully they'll see it if they come in here to look for me.

I open my window. Cool air immediately rushes in, chilling my body. I slip out and climb down the side of the house.

This is familiar, too familiar for my liking. This is the exact day I ran away three years ago. This is how I left. My parents were home. My brother was home, his friends with him. They are all busy. It was just as easy as it is now. This is exactly how it went three years ago, except I had the intent not to come back home.

That is not the purpose of this little trip. No, this is to clear my head, to make me capable of living at home. This is to help me figure out how to convey to my parents and brother the feeling of neglect they put me through years ago.

I am making an effort to stay.

I walk around the side of the house and onto the pavement of the sidewalk. My feet drag on the sidewalk.

When I ran away, I literally ran from home. I did not walk like I am now. I ran. And I was breathless by the time I got to the park. I may be a dancer, but I am by no means a runner.

I sit on a bench down the street from my house; the one for people catching the bus.

I remember walking around the neighborhood a week after I ran away. The streets were quiet, as they are now. I met someone that day; this girl who also ran from home. Her stepfather was sexually abusive; her mother never believed her. She was a meth addict. It made my problems seem so small, like I should be happy my brother hadn't raped me.

But I believed I was too ugly for him to want to rape.

That girl, I think her name was Susie, made me realize that things could be worse. Though she thought I had it worse than her. She couldn't imagine never talking to her mother, father, older sister, and even the step-father who raped her. She called me socially and emotionally starved. She told me I rarely showed emotion, that I was awkward around people. I didn’t know I was.

She made me open up, made me feel. She was the closest thing I had to a best friend.

She died. I don't know how. All I remember is finding her on this bus bench. She was pale. Her lips were blue-tinted. I left a note for her mother. I called an ambulance on the pay phone.

I didn't cry.

Even if she was only eleven years old, two years my junior at the time. I felt bad, of course. She was my friend.

I was too focused on the fact that it was her, not me. Why couldn't I have died? Why couldn't I have been put out of my personal hell? She was so young. Not even a teenager. Her mother was looking for her and almost caught her a number of times. I was thirteen. No one wanted me. I was worthless.

I tear runs down my face.

It should have been me, not her.