Tuck Sinn

70

Tom walked with the bag slung around him. He opened his door for the last time. Closed it as softly as he could.

He walked down that old, old hallway that he's walked across all his life.

So many memories, so many years-these last few, not so good. His whole life was spent here in this small town.

Tom walked down those stairs. Each second, he moved with a shallow breath, stepping in those right places he had memorized years back; Each second, he expected to hear an opening door or a voice behind him or something, hoping for nothing. And he got nothing-just a silent night to match his own silent footsteps. He reached the bottom of the stairs and looked back, up those old worn steps. He had so many adventures to take.

He continued.

Tom put on his shoes and took the rest of that old bread loaf, and another that was fresher. He would need it if he wanted to walk a few days without stopping-they'd be looking for him, no doubt. They'd be wanting him to come back.

The thought of actually, finally leaving gave him a thrill. He hadn't felt the excitement of an adventure in a long time.

Tom reached the big creaky wooden front door. He reached his hand out and grabbed the cold handle. One last adventure to last a lifetime. That's all he needed, now.

He opened that door. As slowly as he could, but his breath was shallow and rising and his heartbeat took over him, and he needed to leave before he was caught. He moved the drawing to his bag, to a place it wouldn't get wet.

He walked through the doorway and closed it behind him, making sure it closed as silently as it could. Tom looked-- the bird was still there, but he knew it would be gone with the rain by morning.

It had to be now.

But before he could go, he had to say his goodbyes.

He wouldn't tell Sid or Aunt Polly-- they would just stop him. But he knew Sid would understand, and Aunt Polly would grow to accept it, too.

Tom stepped off the porch. He closed his eyes and let the rain soak through him, each flick of water making his body tense and cold and freezing-- but it was the best thing he had ever felt. He was going to be free.

Tom walked through town, struggling against the storm. He held his bag against his stomach and he curled into it-hopefully the things inside weren't getting too wet, but Tom knew they probably were. It was alright.

He went to see Becky.

There were no streetlamps on, but he didn't need them-years and years of them being together, he knew the way. Each step made him lighter, made his stomach turn faster. This felt right. This, finally, finally, was what he needed.

In the dark, he looked up. Couldn't see much but dark and darker, but he knew Becky's house was right ahead of him. This rain was weighing down his body, pushing him to the ground with every drop, and still he continued.

Tom walked to Becky's house. Knocked on their big door-a few echo-y raps, thick and full. The energy of the night was all around him, so Alive. He felt it in him now.

Tom Sawyer stood at their door in the middle of the night, waiting.

He knocked again. They were all probably sleeping. But this was urgent-either they answered now, or he would be gone without a trace.

The door opened, and the warm air from inside the house blew in. Judge Thatcher was standing at the door. Tom's stomach dropped sickly, but he stood there, composed, watching the tiredness in the man's eyes mix with a confusion, an annoyance.