Running away was easier than she thought it would be. She wasn’t even homesick, or sad. This was nothing like when she ran away when she was little. Tiny pink backpack, two granola bars, her pink and white puppy dog that Nana bought her. That’s all she needed then. But on the other hand, every time she ran away then she was sobbing by the time she reached the end of the street and Mom had to carry her back home. Not this time.
It had been two days, but she felt great. Two days out of that house. Two days of freedom.
The open road, the rolling hills, the coast live oaks. Nothing beats PCH.
Zaba had never been alone before. She’d FELT alone a lot, almost every day back home. But this was different. She didn’t feel that fuzzy gray feeling she did when she was with her family. She was suddenly at ease. Like she was wearing one of those Scarlett O’Hara corsets her entire life, and she finally loosened the laces. She could breathe. Stretch her legs. No, that’s not it. Stretch her wings.
Sure, it was just a beat-up van. But it gave her more than her family ever did. It gave her peace, belonging, and purpose. All the Newmans ever gave her was trauma, stress, and mental illness.
Zaba didn’t have a good home life. Not by a long shot. Nothing too crazy, just the run-of-the-mill neglect and the occasionally beating. She got it though. When your kid starts a fire in the backyard that leads to several homes being evacuated, a time-out just isn’t going to cut. She also knew the old saying hurt people hurt people. Her parents didn’t know any better. Who was supposed to tell them that what they were doing would royally fuck up their kid? Exactly.
None of that mattered now. She doubted they would come looking for her. This was it. She struck out on her own. Sink or swim.
Comments