alive_
swinglifeawayxx
prologue; run
When he is seventeen, he runs away.
Packs a bag in the dead of night, grabs a few tattered notebooks, locks up his guitar case, and sits on his roof watching the sun rise and the moon rest her tired eyes. He waits until his fucked up mother is unconscious in bed and his terrified father is praying at church one Sunday morning, and gets in his old, beaten up convertible. His worn leather jacket and woolen hat fall onto the seat beside him, a pack of cigarettes and a lighter falling into the cup holder. The sunglasses in his hands fall over his blank, thirsty eyes as his converse-clad foot slams onto the gas pedal.
The skid marks on the clean, suburban concrete are the only proof he was ever there. He raises his head and spits disdainfully at the memories he leaves behind in that god-forsaken town.
The first day he pays no attention to where he is – his only aim is to get the fuck out of that place. The road signs blur together in a mass of green and white, the asphalt of the highway wearing slowly into the old tread of his tires. The pack of cigarettes begins to shrink in puffs of smoke and the practiced inhale of one so dependent on the burn of his dying lungs.
The crackling radio in his car plays old blues and the southern sounds of his childhood, the music of Nashville and Dallas and the deep South. He remains silent and still, only pulling off the roadway long enough to fill up his tank and buy whatever cheap caffeine he can lay his hands on. He does not plan on stopping tonight.
When he gets back into the car, the hot black leather burns his skin.
When the road begins to twist and blur before his eyes sometime around noon the next day, he reluctantly pulls the car to a stop on the shoulder. The other, newer, faster cars rush by him, no concern at all expressed for the young, stumbling man pulling the top of his convertible up and crawling inside, collapsing in sleep before his head hits the passenger seat.
There are no missed calls flashing on the cell phone he refuses to check. They don't give a damn about him.
It's midway through his third day of driving when the thunderclouds roll in. The convertible top is down again and a new pack of cigarettes resides in the cup holder. One is held between his calloused fingers.
He stares ahead as the raindrops begin to fall around him. It's not until the lightning begins to strike frighteningly close that he pulls over and puts up the dingy top. When he gets back into the car, he realizes his new pack of cigarettes is soaked through. He picks up a sodden stick, and holds the lighter to it until it burns.
He swears and punches the steering wheel as the tiny flame extinguishes immediately.
He is sure he is dreaming when he sees the sign. It must be the lack of food, the one greasy hamburger in his stomach that causes the fabled sign on the hill to fall into his line of vision. Its white letters gleam tantalizingly in the hot California sun.
Welcome, Shane, it seems to say. Welcome to hell.
He faintly thinks to himself that nowhere is as bad as where he's been.
new idea.
yes/no?