[JOURNALS V.2]

It was near 9:00 and the boy's parents were finally going to bed. He couldn't see them, but he could hear them moving around not far away. He waited in his under the blankets, hiding his face from the light of the moon. It seemed, after a few minutes, that they would never go to sleep. He could hear shuffling, scratching, pounding and thumping as though it were coming from right outside his bedroom door. At a point, he was afraid that they would bust in and start shooting off all kinds of firecrackers, missiles and grenades. But, after about 15 minutes, they at last settled down and he heard the mattress on their bed creak. They were in bed. He quickly pulled out his iPod and plugged the headset in. As he was shifting the headset so it would fit comfortably, he set the built-in alarm clock. He couldn't do what he wanted so early on after his parents flew to the dreamland, so he would have to start a few hours later. He turned the alarm on and tried to fall asleep. He tried to clear his mind, but his plan was either preventing him from sleep or clogging up his conscious with nightmares. He finally fell asleep, but he wished he hadn't.

He was next to a black box, covered in multi-colored wires and circuit boards galore. Around him were swirling shades of purple, black, grey and gold. The four colors that he hated the most. They moved in a figure-eight form, just the right speed to make him sick. He turned to look at the black box, which he noticed was wrapped in red cylinder sticks. Sticks…of dynamite! He stared; shocked at the box, he saw a small blinking panel which he knew was the timer. A time bomb right in front of him!Again he noticed the swirling colors, but this time that had formed to shape people. Faces that he recognized, but he couldn't name them in this unconscious state of mind. They were mouthing something, but all he heard was a mass of garbled nothing come out. Try as he might, he couldn't even read their lips. They were speaking oddly, as though through a broken jaw. Then he heard one voice that he could understand."Don't let it…go off…" moaned a color-person that he couldn't see. It was far back, out of sight. The boy looked down at the box and realized he had no idea what to do. He tried calling out."How?" he yelled into the gloom. No answer met his ears. He tried again, but this time he started to hear a beeping. He stared down again, surprised, and saw that the red panel timer was down to 0:12. He started to fidget, playing with different cords in desperation. The timer continued to tick, and the beeping got louder. He pulled out a single cord in panic, and the beeping exploded in his ears.

He woke with a start, the iPod's alarm blaring in his ears. He silently got out o bed, tucked his iPod in his pants pocket, and kneeled down so he was face level with the bed. Reaching and pulling, he retrieved a backpack full of nonperishable food, clothes, water, gum (he liked all kinds of candy), his best pocketknife, a lighter and fluid, a tiny hammer and a hatchet. Overall, the backpack was stuffed. He knew that no man should ever weigh himself down while traveling, but he trusted that this stuff would only last as long as it was needed. After that, he would be set to live on his own, without help from anybody or , he grabbed his most prized possession; his Gibson Les Paul Cherry wood Sunburst Custom. Playing guitar was his life, and that was the exact reason for planning this whole thing. If he was to live his dream, he would have to go to where things happened. He was going to New York. Not exactly the best place to have a dream, but it was the closet big city, since he lived in Pennsylvania.

With a sad smile, he looked upon his room, where he had spent most of his free time rocking out so hard that they annually got complaints from the neighbors. Good times…But now he was going to leave that all behind…He opened the window as quietly as he could and carefully slid his guitar out of the window. It hit a bush softly, too soft to cause any damage. After the guitar, his backpack was lowered, which landed on the bush next to the one that the guitar had landed on. He wasn't too worried about anything breaking in his bag; everything was pretty sturdy or absorbed impact. Next, he went. Lowering himself onto his front lawn, he was careful not to make any unnecessary noise. The last thing he needed was for the neighborhood dogs to wake up and start last, after he picked up his guitar and his bag, he was ready. He silently tip-toed away from his house; the only home he had ever known. It made him sad, of course, but he needed a chance to live freely. He just couldn't deal with an isolated life without action or adventure. He was an adventuresome kid in a dull a moment, he considered highly of turning back and act as nothing had ever happened. But that thought quickly left his mind as he thought of his new life; of fame and fortune; of playing guitar for a living. What a wonderful way to make a living!Then he was off, to do what he loved to do.

Thwak! The girl hit the floor, her face still stinging and a bruise already forming on her face. Tears welled up in her eyes and she starting to cry quietly. Around her lay useless junk that her drunkard father was always too lazy to throw away. Coke cans, empty popcorn bags and dirty paper plates were her only supporters as her father swayed above her. He was drinking and yelling 24/7, if he wasn't busy sleeping and taking up space. He screamed when he got drunk enough, and, unfortunately, hit her.

"You take that, BITCH!" he screamed. "When did I tell you to stop cleaning? I tell you over and over that you don't have any right in this house! When I tell you to work, you'll work and friggin' LIKE IT! And if you don't, this'll happen!" He slapped her in the face again, knocking her over. This time, she jumped up and yelled back at him

"I'm not you slave! I'm your daughter! You're lucky I haven't called the authorities! I deserve better than this drunken slob of a slime-ball!" she yelled, tears still falling down her cheeks like rain. Her father hadn't expected her to bite back, and his drunken self was having a hard time registering the words that entered his ears. Be that as it may, he was back quickly and screaming at her twice as loud as usual. Spit flew from his mouth as he let out the voice of a 24-wat speaker system.

"What did you say? I am your father! I am your king; your ruler! You are my servant, whose only reason in life is to serve me! If you don't do exactly what I say, when I say, I'm going to give you away to another guy who doesn't take care of you like I do!" The girl's anger was now at a boiling point. She wanted to tear his head off, right here and right now.

"Jerk! You haven't done ONE loving thing to me since mom died!" she screamed, more misery than hatred in her voice by this time. Her mother was the kindest, most loving women in the world, and also the only thing keeping her father from abusing her. After her death four years ago, all her father did was drink and mourn.

"You little brat! You need a lesson on how to be grateful for what you have!" he yelled, advancing on her. She instinctively grabbed to closest thing to her: a wooden bat. Before she could register what she was doing, she swung the bat like a mallet upon her father's head, making a loud cronk noise. Time seemed to slow down as her father fell to the ground, possibly mind started racing, thinking over what she should do now. Run, stay, what should I do? If she ran, she would be alone and wouldn't last long. If she stayed, the cops would think that she killed him on purpose. But she could see his chest moving slowly, a sign that he was still alive. But he would hit her twice as hard if she stayed and waited for him to wake. So, her mind made, she quickly packed some clothes, soap and make-up into her small purse. She didn't know much about survival, and she didn't know that she wasn't taking any of the right threw on her tattered coat and ran out of the door, slamming it shut behind her. She sprinted to the other side of the house and onto the street, only stopping to snap the electric wire to make sure her father couldn't call the cops when he woke up. This would give her a good head start, along with the fact that it was only reached the street and started running top speed in the other direction, away from her drunk, abusive father; away from misery; away from her memories.

The boy had managed to make it to the main street of his neighborhood without notice, but he knew from his survival training camp that you should never assume safety. Always keep you guard up, no matter how easy the going was just about to turn onto the highway exit when he heard loud footsteps behind him. Turning cautiously, he looked into the darkness to see what was making such a racket when he was trying to escape unnoticed. Was he being chased? Had his parents heard him get out and took pursuit? The only thing he knew for sure was that he needed to hide, and quick. It didn't matter who it was if he wasn't in sight. So he speedily ran behind the nearest bush, in which he used his one-of-a-kind camouflage skill to hide himself perfectly. He used the surrounding bushes as an outer coat, while he ducked as low as he could next to a hidden tree a few seconds, nothing happened. The footsteps approached quickly, but he could not get a visual of the source. The trees shook with the wind around him, and leaves rustled noisily over each other, searching for somewhere to rest. Then, finally, he saw wasn't sure, but he could've sworn he saw a crying girl streak past him and down the road. It seemed highly suspicious for anyone who wasn't searching for him to be out so late. Much less, running at top speed. He figured that it might find some answers if he followed it. So, with haste, he silently followed the figure, making sure he was never more than two yards behind it. He could hear the sobbing above the stomping, so it was apparent that whatever it was hadn't known he was there. He took this time to speed up so he could get a good look at its face. According the sound of its voice, it was female. Her voice was high-pitched and squeaky, like all the girls at his school. She was shorter than him by at least 6 inches, a common factor with most girls he knew. So, using that logic, he could figure that the figure was a girl around his age. But the strangest thing was that she sounded highly familiar. Like he knew her from somewhere, but he couldn't think of a certain point, the girl tripped over her feet and fell hard to the ground. At least, she almost did. The boy was there, underneath her and supporting her before she had a chance to go half of the way down to the ground. Her body stopped abruptly with the strength of muscles.