𝐉𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐞'𝐬 𝐆𝐨𝐭 𝐚 𝐆𝐮𝐧

the chase is on

𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓.

It was a clear shot to the town below, no fences or dogs or nurses popping out to say "Where do you think you're going?"

The only thing that scared the shit out of me was the blinking red cameras I saw once or twice. Avery had not warned me about those and I almost peed my pants when I caught a glimpse of the first one, not sure if I had dodged the lens or not.

I kept imagining that at any moment sirens would blare and cops would swarm me, all because a security guard watching film had spit his drink out and pressed a red button when he caught me walking away from the facility. The idea alone kept me walking faster.

I dodged rocks and fallen limbs and even caught sight of a rabbit once, bushy tail bouncing away so quickly I felt embarrassed for startling it. I wondered why he was in a rush and suddenly wished I could go where he's going, too.

The escape route to town took about fifteen minutes, which baffled me. Surely, you'd think, they'd put a mental institution farther away from civilization. That wasn't very well thought out. Thus, before I knew it, I was on the outskirts of town, the screaming of children on the Ferris wheel and the smell of buttered popcorn drawing me in. I took the sight of the town in with hungry eyes, but first, with a hungry nose.

The town was hosting a fair, obviously, and a delicious smelling one, at that. Growing up, my nose has always been good at sniffing out things I would never be able to taste. Don't get me wrong, I didn't grow up on gas station burritos and cheap pizza, but I didn't experience the home cooked meals that every other kid did every night. Well, not all the time. When I had the chance to cook, when there was groceries in the pantry, I cooked. On some occasions, my dad would, too. He was a damn good cook. It was rare, though. And we never ate together, ever. If we did, I don't remember it, at all. Or maybe I do and I've regressed the memory into the farther parts of my mind. It was most likely a bad one.

Just like I had seen when Morgan drove me into town, everything was perfect. The red brick square with an old time bank decorated with balloons, the antique thrift store that had more lamps than secret treasures, the small town boutiques with bedazzled spirit shirts and clothes for Sunday morning church, and lastly, the neon bars that barely fit on the edge of the block, stuffed close to a dead end but bright enough that anyone who saw the lights could be drawn in like a moth. I decided to stay away from there, because I knew it wouldn't be difficult to find another man in there who was an exact replica of my father.

After surveying, I chose to stick close to the edges of the festival, never going too deep onto the streets but never hiding myself in the shadows where I could be seen as a pick pocket or as a threat. For now, I was a regular teenage girl at the town carnival. I was not the girl who had killed her father and was currently escaping from a mental hospital.

I get a few curious stares because I was alone, but I deflected the looks by pretending to walk up to a group like I belonged, a smile on my face as if I had reunited with friends. When the eyes moved on, satisfied, I slunk back to the outskirts. Just like the boy at the hospital, I was not quite on the inside, not quite on the outside. Always neutral.

Sometimes, though, I caught myself being the one staring. I noticed a group of children with painted faces and sticky fingers clinging to their parents. The little girls giggled with each other about the princesses and unicorns streaked across their cheeks as the boys blew air into their cheeks to make the paint crack and stretch. I began to wish that I was holding one of their hands, maybe as the older sister who had to keep an eye on the kids as the parents discussed next weeks pick up schedule.

After a few moments of diluting myself from the illusion, I moved on and strolled by a hustle of kids my age. I tried to stay away from them, but not before I noticed the intertwined hands of several pairs of girls and boys and the laughter that the whole group generated to the festival. Seeing them caused my heart to twinge a little. I wondered what the kids from my old school were doing. Not that I cared for any of them, and vice versa, but there was days when I imagined what my life would have been like had I grown up differently. Maybe I could of said yes to Tommy Brown for the freshmen dance, or gone out with my friends more my sophomore year instead of always working - maybe I could have avoided being ignored my junior year, and senior year, well...maybe I wouldn't of done what I did.