Last year, I was a runaway for a grand total of 27 hours.
I stormed out of my house in complete confusion. I couldn’t understand why, after all the awards I’d managed to win, after I’d been set as the model of success by our relations, my own mother preferred my sister. Why wasn’t I doted over? Why did my mother seem just a little sad every time I came home with more good news? Why? I simply couldn’t understand it.
That day had started out normally enough. It was the ending that had been abnormal.
“Get out!” my mother had screamed. “Get out and never come back!”
I didn’t even argue. It was a testament to my naivety, my rashness, and above all, my immaturity that I took her words at face value and actually left when she’d told me to. I hadn’t even turned back, so convinced was I that I was the victim.
It was dusk when I finally calmed from my righteous indignation and called my friend to come pick me up. I stayed at his equally ratty apartment until I heard sirens in the driveway around midnight the following day.
My mother had called the police on me.
After that, I had literally no choice but to return home. I was greeted with shouts about what an idiot I was as soon as I stepped…
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