On The Run

The ominous rumble of thunder above vibrates through my bones as I quicken my pace down the lonely road. With no time for an umbrella, not even a coat, my body tenses as it anticipates my enemy, the rain. It always comes with pain. As the first drop splashes on my face and runs down my cheek, the memories come flooding back.

The many times I hid in my room with endless tears soaking my pillow, while Mama screamed in pain. His fists were his weapons, and he used them well. Black and blue eyes and busted lips were their specialties. On extra special days, ribs were cracked too. There were times that her screaming and hollering got so loud, I just knew the neighbors could hear. But never once had they come and checked on us. Never once did they call the police. Maybe they thought Mama deserved it. Or maybe they were terrified of this brute of a man. I know I was. His large ex-military body, booming voice, and short temper would have a tiger running scared. A war hero he was. Honorably discharged with tons of medals and slaps on the back.

When I first heard my Pop-Pop was coming home, I was so excited. I still could remember the earlier days of him being so fun. He would laugh and sing and play with me for what felt like hours. After he left for his nine-month tour, I would dream of the day I would see him again. I would run and jump into his arms and everything would be perfect. But nine months turned to twelve. Twelve turned to fifteen, and soon enough, two and a half years had passed. By the time he was due to return, I was eight and unsure of what to expect. Would I still be able to jump in his arms? Did he even remember me? Would we still play and have fun? As soon as we saw him at the airport, I knew this was not the same man who gave me horseback rides and sang me to sleep. The face was the same, but the light was gone from his eyes. They no longer sparkled with mischief. It was as if a dark grey cloud permanently hovered above him.

Soon after he got home, the true gravity of this dark cloud came to light. Somehow he had brought the war home with him. Everything said, everything done, was an attack on him. No matter how hard she tried, Mama could do nothing right. The strong woman with an independent spirit had quickly vanished, and a cowering servant took her place. I hated seeing her placate his foolish pride. Tiptoeing around his fragile ego. Yet it did nothing to soften the blows. "Your Daddy is having a hard time adjusting, that's all," she said to me one morning after I found her in the bathroom dabbing a mask of beautiful lies over her black and blues. Even at nine, I knew that was no excuse.

Soon enough I mustered enough courage and called 911 anonymously, hoping they would take him away forever and free us from his demons. But to my disappointment, when Officer Jenkins showed up at our door, my mother put on her best beauty queen smile and insisted that whoever had called, had made a terrible mistake. The officer looked my way and said, "Hey kid. Is your daddy hittin’ yah?"

"How dare you question her like that? She is just a child! She shouldn't be asked questions like that!" my mother interrupted before I could say a word. "And besides, her Daddy loves her and would never put a finger on her," she continued while pushing me behind her.

I wanted to object. To say that aside from yelling for me to pass him something like the remote, or his cigarettes, he couldn't care less whether I was alive or dead. I could disappear tomorrow and he probably wouldn't even notice. Mama, on the other hand, he couldn't help but notice. Every move she made was scrutinized and judged. One wrong move and his fist would punish. All this ran through my mind, yet nothing came from my lips. I was too afraid to even speak.

Suddenly Pops came marching up the driveway looking pissed. "What the hell is going on here, Kenny?" he demanded as he towered over the officer.

Officer Jenkins visibly shrunk in my father's presence. "Oh nothing, just doing routine checks in the area."

"I hope that's all. I'm sure my brother Lieutenant Jackson wouldn't be happy to hear you're down here harassing my family,” Pops threatened.

"Oh no. I would never harass the family of a war hero sir. Thank you for your service!" he gushed and then followed with a pathetic salute. He then turned to my mother and said, "Y'all have a good evening now." He gave me a quick look of regret before heading back to his car. That was the moment I learned that my father was untouchable. No one would come to our rescue.

~

My heart pounds in my ear, my legs tremble beneath me. After endless miles of running and then walking when I can no longer run, they are about to give out any minute now. A rusty old diner appears in the distance ahead and I pick up speed. As if determined to soak me through before I can find shelter, the rain comes down heavier. Thankfully I make it to the diner before my legs give out. 

I drop myself into a booth, exhausted but still very alert. I tilt my head slightly downward, hoping that no one will see "sixteen-year-old runaway" printed clearly on my face. Except for an old radio playing soft country music by the counter, the place is pretty quiet. Two old men sit in the far back corner of the diner puffing on cigars and reading newspapers. Another not-so-old man sits up top at the counter, sipping on what looks like coffee. The waitress behind the counter gives him a flirty smile before picking up a menu and heading my way. Before she gets a chance to list off the menu, I quickly say, "Just a black coffee please." I couldn't eat now even if I was starving. The scenes of the last couple of hours still haunt me. Maybe some coffee will settle my nerves.

I poke a hand in my backpack, confirming that the few belongings I have are still dry. All that really matters is the thick roll of twenty dollar bills I had gathered over the last year working odd jobs in town after school. By the time I was fourteen, I had made up my mind that I was leaving that hell hole we called home. I would take Mama with me if I could, but she was still in denial, and no amount of convincing could change her mind about Pops. She loved him. A very twisted, self-hating kind of love, that left her battered and bruised and her child, me, traumatized and resentful. After a year of saving and a few necessities packed in my To-Go bag, I finally had enough money to disappear. My actual getaway plan went far from how I had expected it to, but here I am. Finally away from that monster.

As I sip my coffee, a woman leaving the bathroom approaches my table. With a wide-brimmed hat, a long flowing dress, biker boots, and riding gloves, her clothes confuses me. Without a word she sits in my booth and looks out the window for a bit. Her eyes, thickly lined with eyeliner turn to me. "You look like hell," she says in a matter-of-fact way.

"Thanks. I feel like it too," I reply.

She looks at my backpack and asks, "Where you headed?"

"Anywhere that's far from here," I say casually. For some reason, I feel comfortable talking to this woman. Like somehow, she gets it.

"Well, you're in luck. That's exactly where I'm going. Drink up," she says while tapping her finger on the table.

I quickly gulp down the rest of my lukewarm coffee, throw some coins on the table and haul my bag over my shoulder. The mysterious woman leads me to her old Ford truck and I climb up in the passenger seat. We take off down the lonely road in silence as the pitter-patter of raindrops continues on the roof of the truck, much lighter than before. I gaze through the window, as the occasional lightning bolt crackles and pops, lighting up the night sky. I wonder if Mama’s okay. Does she hate me for leaving? What did she tell the police? Hopefully one of those pathetic cops took her to the hospital to get checked out. That arm of hers is definitely broken. Possibly a few ribs too.

That monster had taken a bat and shattered her arm. He then proceeded to kick her in the ribs over and over while she curled in a ball on the floor. It was the last straw for me. Something just chipped inside my head, and I found myself grasping cold metal. I blink away the memory and try to focus on the road.

After several minutes of silence, the kind stranger beside me asks, “Why you runnin’ away?”

With no energy left for lies, I simply respond, “I killed a man”.

Unfazed, she continues, “Did he deserve it?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”