graffiti (completed)

Twenty-One.

There was a thick fog the night I left.

It surrounded you like the exact definiton of what it was; a cloud on the ground. The water from it soaked any fallen blossoms, and turned the pavement dark. Every time I left, I'd compare it to the first time.

.   .   .

A remote town in South Carolina, where the houses were seperated by miles of dusty roads and swarms of mosquitos. The dust would get in the crevices of shoes while walking to sheltered bus stops and back, and the air was always thick, like breathing in water.

I didn't talk to the new family on the first day we met. There were two other foster kids; two older, one younger, that talked enough for it to not be noticed. I didn't talk on the second day, either. Or the third. Or the next week. There was nothing I had to say.

I would just look out the window and hope that my dad would come back. The stars were always shining, as dim and flickering porchlights were the only things polluting the night sky.

School started the next month, fifth grade, and I decided not to talk in school, either. Everyone's sweet tones, their heavy accents upset me. Everyone knew each other already, and I would always be a stranger.

The parents started to beg me to talk.

I started saying mild things; hello, goodbye, okay, but refusing to go any further. I was still waiting for someone.

I would walk down the dusty road from bus stops hoping to see my father running, or in the house. Mostly because I thought he knew where my mom was, and I would live with her again.

"Do I ever go back?" In the third month, I finally spoke.

A pause and smile from the mother. "No, honey.  You're here now."

No more words.

I started getting bullied for not talking, and I made responses in the form of punches. I kept getting in trouble. There was nothing to do in the town, either, unless you walked a mile to the nearest restaurant, or biked over to a not so nearby friend's house, or a lake. Most kids spent the entire day out, and came back with stories. I would borrow one of the kid's bikes, riding around, through the woods to the lake. I thought about just leaving it behind. I thought about getting as much money as possible and taking buses until I could go home. I only spoke to the parents, and even then it was rare. I figured that they would be so busy that they wouldn't look for me. Slighty inaccurate ten year old strategies.

"Why don't you talk to us?" Janice, fifteen, hair a sandy blond, freckles scattered across her face.

I had simply swallowed. It was because they were strange, they were strange and I was scared. I didn't want to be there. I didn't want anyone to know me.

"Maybe she's stupid," Evan, six, a chubby boy with the filterless speech of most kids.

Justin, Janice's brother, fourteen. He was smarter than most, in that way that showed you he knew more than he ever let on.

"Daddy left her in a house, and her mom decided to give up on everything. She don't talk because nobody wanted to talk to her then, and nobody does now," he turned, a smile playing on his lips, "Ain't that right?"

I slapped him across the face. It didn't hurt him too bad, you could see, but he was mostly surprised. The parents gave me a talk, and told me if I kept misbehaving, they wouldn't be able to take care of me anymore. So  I took my roller backpack, full of little clothes I had, and walked to the nearest town (before being found out, of course). The first time I left, it was because I didn't want to be a burden. It just evolved from there.

I had better strategies now, eleven years later; I had a prepaid cards for motel rooms, places to get things nearby. If worse came to worse, I had charm, and sometimes that was enough to get a ride, or a meal. It usually never came to that.

The bus was nearly empty, only a dozing man and a woman absentmindedly scrolling on her phone. I stepped off at the place nearest to a hotel, closer to the suburbs of Long Island. The suburbier suburbs, I guess.

The hotel was shady, as it always is, but clean. They didn't ask questions at the counter, but even if they did, it was all about confidence. Acting like you knew what you were doing, and what you were was right.

A single bed, a couch, the stench of past cigarettes were my only company for the night. But I knew I wouldn't sleep. I never did the nights I left. My mind was too busy bouncing around past memories,  like South Carolina, and Queens with Drew.

Mike showing up at my door, stories shared over hookah and steak. Derek trying to move me from his seat on the bus, the cans falling out of my locker, the police showing up at his door as he ran from his father. They would boubce the way they did almost every night, and even running might stop it for a day or two. No matter how hard I ran, I guess, I could never have freedom from everything.