Runaway

That was the second time I almost did it. The other time occurred just two days ago, this past Thanksgiving. It's not that I haven't thought about doing it before. It's often a topic of wonderment, of mere curiosity for me. I never would have really done it. But these past two times... these past two times were serious contemplations.

I locked myself in my room when I came home. Instead of eating what my father had bought for dinner, I made do with the other half of the Vietnamese sandwich I had bought for lunch. As I ate, I pondered while looking outside, gazing at the full moon whose white rays shone through the cloak of clouds and through the windows.

I thought about climbing up on my desk, which stood beneath the windows, and quietly removing the screen. I thought about taking a pair of shoes out of my closet and using them to walk outside. I thought about which friend to call in order to have him or her pick me up, now that we're of age to drive. It was all planned out, and it would have been so easy.

But I fell asleep instead, and when I woke it was already late. Like the other times, the idea became impractical. Besides, the tears had already subsided. They were already soaked into my jacket, my sleeve, my pillow, my skin. The only evidence of what had occurred was the precipitate of a single tear that had tainted one of the lenses of my glasses.

I wasn't crying. No, not at all. I was bawling. Why? It really isn't anything new.

I'd like to post the whole conversation but that would be too long. Instead, I'll sum it up in four words:

They still don't understand.