17-year old Shawn Spencer sat on the roof of his childhood home, for the last time. He could feel the slight breeze rustle his hair, and he smiled wide.
He didn't feel happy, exactly. He felt at the same time ecstatic and utterly calm, wanted to cry in joy and in pain, wanted to scream in elation or in despair, wanted to do something.
The thing was, he was going to do something, he just wasn't sure what yet.
There were three options.
The first was to remain as he was, completely and utterly miserable under his father's overbearing eye, enduring constant criticism, even if he went to college- his father had told him in no uncertain terms that he'd be keeping up with his scholarly progress. This path undeniably led to a personal hell, lightened only very briefly by his best friend, Gus.
The second was to leave. Get on his bike and speed off into the distance, find somewhere to stay with the couple hundred dollars he had saved up, find work somewhere, just hit the road. Completely get away from everything.
The third was to die. Jump off a bridge, blow out his brains, slit his wrists, do something that caused massive bodily harm and his life to end.
If he was honest with himself, the easiest seemed the third option. At the same time, he knew that was the option that would irrevocably hurt everyone he loved (or at least everyone that loved him, which was probably a short list), and he was unwilling to put Gus through that.
He was also fairly certain that he wouldn't survive long with the first option, because honestly he had no use for school, and his dad would never let him forget all of his failures and shortcomings.
Shawn reflected briefly on his relationship with his father.
He'd tried so hard to hate him for so long, that it had worked, just a little bit. However, he also loved the man, and he knew there was no denying it. That made for a difficult relationship with the one you were supposed to be able to trust completely.
Ever since his dad had arrested him, he couldn't get the notion from his mind that his dad must really, really hate him, to have arrested his own son for Grand Theft Auto, when it was his dad's truck in the first place!
There was no use in ranting, though, and he knew it.
Therefore, that left option two. Leave.
Shawn had prepared for all three options beforehand, and he was grateful for his foresight. He slipped inside his room from the roof for the last time, grabbed his back pack (which was basically filled with money, extra clothes, food, and his toothbrush), and tiptoed out the door, grabbing his motorcycle keys and helmet on the way out.
As he walked his bike a mile away from his- no, his father's- house to make sure he didn't wake anyone he knew, he thought about what he was doing.
Did he really want to do this? Leave behind everyone he'd grown close to over the years? Everyone he cared about, even loved?
And the answer, he was mildly surprised to realize, was a complete-and-total, unanimous yes.
As he drove away from the only home he'd ever known, his only thought was, where to now?