CHAPTER ONE: LEAVING

His fist connected with the side of my jaw, knocking me down onto the carpeted floor. The impact knocked the wind out of me, and it didn't help that a moment later he kicked me in the stomach.

"Worthless bitch," he drunkenly muttered, "You should've died instead of Mary."

He kicked me again, this time in the ribs, making it even harder to breathe. I then felt two very strong, angry hands pull me up by the arm and push me into the wall. My vision was blacking out by then, but I forced myself to stay awake.

I hit the ground again, every inch of my body hurting. He gulped down another bottle of beer, and when he was finished, he staggered towards the bathroom. I swear, I could've hear him vomiting from a mile away.

This had been my life for the past two years.

Not that I enjoyed it, I just learned a long time ago that crying and wishing you were dead was pointless. Moaning and groaning wouldn't get you anywhere. It would just make the world see you as weak, and it would punch you a lot harder, in my case, literally.

My name is Max Ragland. I'm seventeen years old.

This man who had beaten me up, abused me, and made me wish I was dead for half of my life was my father.

For the record, he wasn't always like this. I was born in and grew up in San Antonio, Texas. We used to be a happy little family–me, my mom, my dad, and my older brother, Mitchell.

When I was ten, my mom died in a car crash. Mitch and I were in the car with her, and we'd barely survived. We spent weeks in the hospital, and were the only ones who fully recovered, but she didn't make it.

Marcus, our dad, blamed us for no reason. He always said it was our fault, that we should have died instead of our mother. For a while, we thought it was just grief. But soon, instead of healing with the help of his own children, he turned to alcohol for comfort. For years, Mitch and I had to put up with it. He wouldn't often hit us, just neglect us and we were forced to fend for ourselves. We never told anyone about it because we were scared we'd be separated from each other, so we carried on. We lived under the same roof as Marcus, but it felt like worlds away.

When Mitch was seventeen and I was fifteen, he left. He ran away. My own brother, who had been my best friend, my partner-in-crime, my only solace through this hell with our father, had left me. He left me to deal with our dad's rage and alcoholism. I vowed to never forgive him for that. I never knew why he left me, and I don't want to.

As my father was vomiting his guts out, I took it as an opportunity to get away. Forcing the pain to subside for a little while, I stood up and limped towards the stairway. I knew I only had a little bit of time before Marcus would come back. As I reached the top of the stairs, I heard him exit the bathroom and drunkenly saunter towards the couch, where he dropped down onto.

I felt relief wash over me. Whenever my dad was passed out, it meant that for a little while, he wouldn't be a rage monster.

Once I got into my bedroom. I closed the door and stood in front of the mirror. Lifting my shirt a little, I examined the bruises on my stomach and ribs. Luckily, this time, they weren't too bad. I'd been through worse, and thankfully, I didn't break any bones.

Sighing, I sat down against my door. I wanted to cry. I wanted to bawl my eyes out until I couldn't breathe, to pray to God to help me. But I knew there was no point of that. I'd already done that countless times.

I wondered if this was what it'd be like for the rest of my life, that I'd be stuck here 'till I died, living in fear, Marcus constantly darkening the doorway.

That's when it hit me.

I didn't have to stay here.

I could just leave.

Just get up and leave, like Mitch did.

By now, I was seventeen, the age he was when he left.

My dad wouldn't miss me. I knew it. If anything, he'd be grateful that he wouldn't have to deal with me anymore.

So I decided to run away, just like that.

I thought for a minute. Where would I go? I didn't care. But I still needed a plan.

Then I remembered my mom's sister's family, the Valances. Memories of driving to Tulsa, Oklahoma, where they lived, for Thanksgiving and Christmas tugged at the back of my head. I remembered their daughter, Sherri. We called her Cherry because of her bright red hair that looked like a cherry color. Cherry and I used to play in her backyard all the time. We were close friends and cousins. I hadn't seen her or her parents since my mom's funeral years ago.

I decided to go back there, to Tulsa, to stay with Cherry's family.

But how would I get there?

The bus, duh.

I picked up my wallet from my dresser. I had about fifty dollars, enough for me to get a bus ticket to Tulsa and figure out the rest from there. There was a bus station about a few blocks from my house, so now I had an escape route.

Grabbing my brown leather jacket out of my closet, I put it on and also got my denim messenger back, tossing in a few clothes, my sketchbook, a few pencils, my wallet, and my favorite book, The Hunchback of Notre Dame. I pulled on my black ankle combat boots and slapped on my head a baseball cap that read "Property of San Antonio, TX".

The one thing I took before I left was an old photograph of my family and I. It showed my mom, Mitch, and me. We were under a tree, having a picnic. I studied my mom's face. She looked so young, so alive.

People say I look just like her–same curly-wavy brown hair, same gray eyes, same freckled complexion. But we have different personalities. My mom was gentle and kind, whereas I was obnoxious and tomboyish.

I folded up the picture and put it into my bag, which was slung over my right shoulder and hung on my left side. I opened my window, and, taking one last look at my bedroom, I said to myself, "So long, suckers."

If you're wondering, I wasn't stupid enough to just jump out the window. No. If I did that I'd kill myself. Instead, I gently lowered myself down and stood on the well-worn flower box outside of the window on the first floor.

So I then jumped down from there and headed off on my own.

As soon as I got to the bus station, I walked into the building and up to the counter. The line wasn't long, it was just a few people before I reached the front.

"Welcome to San Antonio Bus Services," said the clerk, "and how may I help you?"

"When does the next bus to Tulsa leave?" I asked. He licked the tip of his finger and flipped through a paper or two.

"Well, let's see…I'd say the next one leaves in about…twenty minutes."

"I'll take it," I replied, fishing my wallet out of my bag, "and I'd like it one-way."

"Wonderful. Your total is twelve dollars." I handed him the money, and when he had placed it into the cashier, he handed me the ticket.

I placed my wallet back into my bag. The ticket read Bus A-7. I exited the building and headed towards the bus that had said marking. I saw that some people were already boarding, so I got in line once again.

I used the time I had to really process what was happening. I was finally free. Away from that demon I had to call my father, away from the pain of the past, finally able to escape and into the real world. It was all happening so fast, like all of this was on one page of a book, and I was just a simple character.

By the time I had reached the front and the driver had ripped off the necessary part of my ticket, I boarded the bus and settled for a seat in the back. I placed my bag on the chair next to me, signifying I didn't want someone sitting next to me. I looped the strap onto my ankle so no one would steal my bag.

"Excuse me," I said, tapping the shoulder of a lady in front of me, "Do you know how long the drive's gonna be?"

The lady shrugged.

"Dunno," she replied, "seven, eight hours, maybe."

I nodded. That would give me enough time to sleep.

So, closing my eyes just as the bus began to pull out of its parking spot, I drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

A/N: So there you have it! Chapter one of "Different"! Let me know what you think of it in a review, and if you have any ideas for this story, let me know!

Note–I have no freakin' clue how a real bus station works, let alone in the 1960s, so I just kinda guessed based off of what my mom told me.

BUT YEAH! HAVE A FANTABULOUS DAY YA'ALL!

~Lily