Running away from home

What's it going to be then, eh? Seven words that can mean so little yet so much. The words of some one with choices and decisions make. Some one with paths to walk and a life lead. I think those seven words fit perfectly as to what I was thinking on the night I chose to leave my family and home. Notice how I said chose. Well I had a choice and I chose, like always, the wrong one. And that my dear friend is how I ended up on my own, cold and hungry. I could go back you see, hell, maybe, just maybe one day I will. Go back or stay on the streets? To be or not to be that is the question, well, I got the question, no problem, but the answer is what I'm struggling with. I could stay on the streets, or, and it is a very big or I could simply go home. Simply, huh, yeah right. Simple my dear friends is diffidently not what it would be. Can you imagine the embarrassment, the shame I would get by going home. I mean what would I say? What would I do? I can see it now, me tottering up the same old cracked stairs leading to the same chipped wooden white door and saying

"Hello mother, I know I've been gone for what, three years? Three and a half? but I'm home now, so, hey, jobs a gooden, right?"

Yeah there's more chance pigs will fly then that ever happening. I mean I even left with out a word, not even a letter of good bye. nothing. Just packed my bags one night and on my golly old way I went. Bit rude if you think about it. So it's probably best you don't think about it at all. That's what I do, and it seems to work pretty well. Considering the circumstances. If I got a problem that's holding my mind hostage, I just act as if I don't care or forget it completely. It's quite easy when your living on the streets to preoccupy your mind else where. It's harder at night. When you have your mind to yourself and the past creeps up on you, then is when the façade comes along. The façade of not caring. But If you tell your self you don't care for long enough. You start to believe, and when you believe you don't have to act. Which is a good thing. You say something so many times after a while you find yourself just believing, then one day you don't have to remind your self that you did the right thing because you believe it in stead. But there are something's that are harder than others to forget. Like my mother for instance, I tried to tell myself that she would be alright with out me, but slowly, piece by piece the walls of that façade started to crumble. Falling down onto me like a ton of bricks. Crushing me, suffocating me, torturously killing me in the most painful of way possible. Until I feel there is nothing left of me to break. Tainted, broken, nothing, that's all I am. Nothing.

See, your all probably wondering how I ended up like this, a broken spirit, tainted by the life of the streets, an empty casket with nothing inside. Well I'll tell you, it all started when I was nine, just a couple of weeks before my tenth birthday. At the time I was obsessed with art, you know drawling and stuff. Well there was this competition I was entered in, it was done at the community center about half an hour away from home, real excited I was. Determined to win. I had never won any thing before and I had a feeling that day was a lucky one. Oh I couldn't of been more wrong.

Pencils, pencils were a must have. As you all probably already know you need pencils to draw and with out a pencil or two, and a sharpener, another must have. You can't draw. Well at least not properly. It's just simply impossible. Unless of course you use pen. Which is completely ridiculous in a drawling competition. Any way back to the point, I needed pencils to draw. And pencils is what I left in my room. I had rubbers, sharpeners, rulers, hell, I even had protractors. But no pencils. I had been in such hurry to get every thing right and turn up early to the competition, because early ALWAYS beats late, when your early it shows determination, passion, and dedication to the task at hand, so early for me is another must have.

Anyway, where was I? oh yes, I remember. I was in such a panic of turning up late I had forgot to pick up the pencils in the little metal tin on the bed side table as I passed. It was only when we arrived at the community center that I realized I had left them behind.

Then is when the real panicking started to happen. What if nobody had any spare, what would I do? Dad was already grouchy because we had turned up an hour early, and he was getting bored sat in the small reception seating area. So when I told him I had left my pencils at home. Well lets just say it didn't go down too well. He. Was. Fuming. At this point I was nearly in tears. The day I had waited weeks for. My special day was ruined. I was gutted.

My brother being the caring sole he was sensed my distress and offered to drive back home and collect them. He did. Well. Nearly. he didn't make it home and he didn't make it back to the community center either. The Police said it was nobodies fault, slipped on some oil in the road. And collided with an on coming van. He died three hours later in hospital. After that day it was never the same again. My Father had always had more of a connection with my brother then he did with me. They got along better, liked the same stuff, you know, just bonded well. He hated me my Father did, after that day. Pure hatred. I could see it when he looked at me. Eyes full of disgust, hate, and despair. He loathed the ground I walked on. He told me enough times, he didn't even have to do that, it was blatantly obvious. Couldn't blame him though, he had every right to blame me. My selfish behavior killed my brother, their son. It was all my fault. Mine.

Mum, she wasn't so bad. She tried to make it better, really she did. Every night she would argue when Father came home drunk, she would try and stick up for me. But that only ended up with her being thrown across the room or threatened by my Father. I could tell she was scared of him. We all were. He was totally unpredictable and on the rampage. Truly terrifying. Although Mum was nice to me. It was still hard to be near her, to look into her once bright eyes full of life and happiness which were now dull and full of pain. Pain I had caused.

I had witnessed this for six years and couldn't take it anymore. Couldn't watch my Mothers sanity slowly being stripped form her, couldn't watch her be thrown against another wall. Couldn't suffer any more bruises caused by my Fathers hands. I couldn't take it. Couldn't bare to watch my once happy family be ripped apart any more, I wasn't an idiot I knew my family was past the point of repair. Shattered into shards to sharp to put back together, too small to matter, but big enough to cut me, make me bleed and scream out in mental pain. I was lost, lost in a world of, hate, and despair where nothing had a purpose any more, nothing matters. I couldn't take it.

So I left. Coward. As I said from the start I had a choice and I chose this life style, this world. I didn't have to go I could have stayed. For my Mother. To protect her. But no, selfish me strikes again. I convinced myself that if I left it would all be better. For every one. Father, me, Mum every one. Because I wouldn't be there any more to ruin things. But who was I kidding. I knew I was leaving for my own benefit not any body else's. I was sickened by the sun, suppressed by fear, tired of my Fathers senseless hate, burdened by all the little peaces of hope falling, shattering, bound to a life of hate and loathing. I. couldn't. Take. It.

I do often wonder how my Mum is coping, she is something no façade could fix. I will often lay in a hard, cold doorway drunk with fatigue, knowing sleep will not come. Just, thinking of her. Some times I forget what she looks like and have to look at the small picture I stole the night I left to be reminded. That scares me. I forget my own mothers face who does that?

You want to know who I am. I'll tell you. I am nothing.