A/N: Dill's POV. This is just a one-shot that I had to write for school a while back about Dill and why he ended up running to Maycomb, so I've decided to post it. Please review! Enjoy!

I'm sitting in the dark, alone, trying to remember Maycomb County with as much detail as possible. I have a knack for remembering things, but when I think of Maycomb only vague memories are called to mind. I can feel the sun on my face and I can almost hear Jem and Scout through the dark fog that threatens to envelop my mind. It always happens. Whenever I see my Da it happens. That dark fog threatens to consume me, leaving turmoil in its wake and banishing the little hope that I had. I cling to my fragile memories of the sleepy county of Maycomb, but each time I see my Da it gets harder to remember Maycomb after.

I shut my eyes and screw them up real tight to see if maybe it would somehow magically transport me back to Maycomb. My hands are laced tight in my lap and I wish desperately with all my might that I were in Maycomb. I used to do that. Now I know better. The only way to get something is to act; wishing does nothing. I hate it when my Da calls me scrawny, or stupid, or 'kid,' or some names that I won't mention here for fear of them being repeated elsewhere. My Da is always telling me with this insufferably superior sneer on his bulbous face, "Kid, you're short, scrawny, and stupid, and will always be short, scrawny, and stupid."

I try to remind myself that I have friends in Maycomb, and that the only reason my Da says those things is 'cause he's stressed, but it still hurts. I used to cry when he told me those things, but only after both he and my Ma had left. Ribbons of hot, salty tears would stream down my cheeks, leaving me feeling raw and exposed. Crying gives you this hopeless, swollen feeling, like an open wound that's been rubbed with salt. It was those times especially when I needed my memories of Maycomb to push back the darkness. Crying doesn't help anything—I know that now, but still, I'm being pushed closer and closer to the point of no return. I don't want to end up as one of those broken people—the ones that you see walking down the street like puppets, without any thought, feeling, or hope.

So I'm going to run away. I don't know where I'll go, but I suspect I will end up in Maycomb. I've said my prayers and gathered my precious few belongings in my pockets. I'm not sure why I'm hanging around the house any more, but somehow leaving it feels disloyal. I just have to brush this strange feeling off as anxiety, and I think bitterly, My parents don't want me around anyway—they'll probably be happy when they discover I've left.