I ran. I ran from it all, I just left my bags and I left my books and I just ran. And when my shoes split out from under me I threw them to one side and kept running. Those shoes had cost me –well, my mother- nearly 300 dollars and I tossed them aside like trash. I felt like trash. So why shouldn’t my clothes be trash as well? The rain was pouring down like my own tears but I wiped them away and kept running. Sound had diminished to only my panting sobs and the sound of my wet feet hitting the ground. I’d have blisters the next day. And my skin would be torn open by the many times I had fallen to the ground. I don’t know why I did that, I don’t know why I didn’t stop. To this day I can’t tell you that, I think I was trying to run away from my future. Trying to run away from my caution tape wrapped self. I think I was trying to run from death, from being a social pariah, just…running away as fast as I could.
You have to understand something. I did a lot of thinking as I ran but most of my thoughts concentrated on “Why me?” I didn’t even give much thought to anyone else. I hated –in that point- the world for doing this to me. My sickness –I refused to acknowledge it as otherwise- wasn’t as people described it. It isn’t a guillotine perched above your head, waiting to come down.
Rather, it has already fallen but the blade was too blunt to go through. So you merely lay there, tied and beaten with a blunt blade slowly sinking into your flesh. Occasionally they might drag the blade up and snap it back down, lengthening the furrow in the back of your neck. But it doesn’t matter, for you can only just lie there and sob as it chokes the life out of you. You pray, you should pray really…but I was too proud for that. I had always been too proud.
Even now, as I ran…I refused to leave my pride behind, I refused to change.

!!

I hit the ground, skinning my knees and what was left of my stockings. It had gotten cold but I had refused to stop wearing my designer –and therefore much shorter- clothes. I sobbed, clutching at the hard cement with my fingers. I scraped them. I turned my head, biting my lower lip as I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. Rust colored leaves flowed past and around me and into the gutter. My hair stuck to my head and I tore at it suddenly, as if it was chocking me. The rain stopped and so did my tears, in surprise. I looked up.
The rain was slicking his hair down now and running into his dark eyes. It took me a moment to realize he was holding his umbrella over me. It took me a few other moments to wonder why he wasn’t at school, the school I had run from.
“What do you want?” I felt myself snapping before I had even thought about it, habit taking over probably. He merely stared down at me with his dark eyes and shifted the umbrella slightly. “Piss off!” I yelled at him, clutching at my shoulders and bent over double. It refused to look at him and merely stared down at the cement. It’s odd how much detail there is in a simple square of cement when you look at it, all murky greys, sharp blacks and subtle browns. I nearly laughed at the stupidity of my thoughts. I stiffened now as he bent down in front of me and refused to look anywhere but his muddy shoes.
“You’re pathetic.”
Now that made me look up and I brought my hand up, slapping him across the face. He didn’t yield against me, just kept his head rigid and straight. I slapped him again, wanting to feel his flesh move underneath my palm and hating the way he stared at me. When I raised my hand again he caught and that was perhaps what made me start crying again. I knew I was hurting him, but not even allowing me to hurt someone made me cry. Why? Why couldn’t they share how I felt?
“Are you done?” said his quiet voice and I mustered up my remaining energy to glare at him. I began to shiver, whether from suppressed rage or the cold. I hated him now, I really did.
“Bite me,” I hissed at him, but I didn’t move. I could feel blood running down my leg, being spun through the cement and water. He sat down into the water now, keeping the umbrella over both of us.
“You’re pathetic,” I flinched at the repeated phrase. “You act as if everything and everyone is place on this world to do you harm. You’re pathetic because of that, because you’re narrow minded.”
“I’m dying you bastard!” I yelled at him “What the hell do you know about it? I don’t need a sermon!” I couldn’t help it, and I was surprised by those words but honestly…it felt good to let them out. It felt good to finally admit the truth to myself and to say that I was –in fact- truly, truly dying. I suddenly lashed out with my fists, slamming them into his chest and slapping his face. He grunted but didn’t move as I hit him.
I’m not sure for how long I hit him really, but I remember collapsing against his chest, sobbing and whimpering. I also remember his arms coming around me and drawing me close, of his fingers stroking my long hair. I was too surprised to really hit back so I let myself be held. He had dropped the umbrella; I could feel one of its spines digging into my leg.
I cried myself hoarse.
When I was done, he rose to his feet and then wrapped an arm around my waist. Bloody and limping, he took me home.
I only remember thinking “Thank god mom’s working late.”