'Samantha Walker is a blessing,' I write slowly, making sure her name is printed perfectly. I'd do it in cursive, if I knew how to write any better than a second grader, but I don't, so I can't. My eyes sting with tears at the thought of Sam, because it hurts. I am two towns away, and chained up like a zoo animal. My foster parents are actually good this time, which I shouldn't mind, but the fact they strain me from leaving at free will… it gets under my skin. God, I take back all those times I said I wanted someone to care. Sam cared, and I was too blind to realize it. Or just too slow.
I sneak a glance behind me, and the hallway is empty. The same crooked smile creeps onto my face whenever I find they're not glaring down at me over my shoulder. They enrolled me in school, made me eat and shower regularly. I miss freedom. I stand, take another look, and step on my bed. Making sure my feet were avoiding the squeaky parts, I threw the window open, holding balance. The noise it made… wasn't there. I'd been soundproofing this thing for three weeks now, and now that it was perfect – it was time to go. Like I said, I miss freedom. And Sam.
I climb out over the ledge, right leg first then the left, and then I hit the grass without a thud. I smile, proudly. Sam would do the same. I'd padded my feet with so many layers of socks from Target it was deemed impossible for it to even rustle up even the smallest bit of noise. And then I am running. I don't even make myself do it, it's like homeostasis. I don't even know if Sam wants to see me, but I want to see her, so I go. I just go, around corners, between heavy breaths – all of it is endured for her. I want her… I need her.
The bus stop is too risky, I know well that everyone will go looking for me there. I am not a fool anymore. I am not a child. I am Jack, and I want Sam and that is all I know. I must walk to Tree Hill, and I find myself to be okay with this. I've done worse, haven't I? Night dwells, and I have slowed to walking. The sun rises, and I am merely limping. Stopping isn't okay, so I just don't. The wind is cold, and batters my face ruthlessly. My socks have worn, and I can feel the pavement against the soles of my feet. I hate not bringing a pair of shoes – but I was thinking about the sound and not the wear and tear of socks. My jacket ripples, and my hair mocks it.
Five more hours of walking, panting, and near tears, I find myself shuffling past a worn down, unfilled Clothes over Bros store. Brooke Davis's store. Brooke Davis has an adoptive daughter named Sam Walker. They live in Tree Hill. I am in Tree Hill.
I comb my fingers through my hair, backing up a tad to see through the glass of the window, and sure enough there sat Miss. Davis in the flash, taking a tumble over her own dance moves, and then breaking out in laughter as she lays on the floor. Bulletproof is heard playing, and I assume she was trying to match the beat. Brooke's eyes meet mine, and at first they're cold. A shiver crawls down my back as I think about what damage I might've caused on Sam. Had she cried for weeks? Cut herself over me? Tried suicide? Came face to face with depression? I shook my head, not wanting to think about anything along those scary, scary lines.
The brown eyes relent, and she scrambles to her feet, and pulls the door open once she reaches it. There's no hesitation in her voice. "What are you doing here, Jack?" I can tell she isn't over me setting up my brother to beat her – and I'm surely not either. I did it for Sam. Nobody would understand, so I never explained.
My mouth opens to speak, but I am too famished to process words. Can she not see in my paled, wind torn face I am unable to produce a reply? She must not, because she clasps her hands on her hips, impatient. "Sam," I mutter, and then comes the coughing fit I wasn't expecting.
I see her give way, and she shakes her head sadly. "You ran away again, didn't you?" Brooke asks me, letting me inside of her store, and then shutting the door softly behind her. She's wear a blue cardigan over a white shirt, matching blue pants, and black heels. Despite the over dose on the darkened shade of azul – it looks good on her. The bob hair cut she has supports this choice. I only nod my head in reply to the inquiry posed, and my eyes scan her shop.
It's empty. It makes me think about me without Sam. Empty.