Life Stories
Run Runaway — The First Time
When I was about nine years old, I ran away from home.
Looking back, I wonder what possessed me to run away in the first place? I know I must have been unhappy. I had suffered some abuse from my father and, I’d changed from being quite a gregarious child to a sullen, detached one.
But how can anyone be sure what tips the scales for a kid to make them want to be somewhere else rather than in the security of their home?
I lived opposite a girl who was a year older than me — Becca. We’d been friends since we were about five and permitted out to play on the street in-front of our houses.
By the time I was eight we were allowed over to the field next to my home.
I remember it was summer and I had been nagging Becca for days to run away with me. I had absolutely no idea where we would go. All that consumed me was the need to leave. I was an avid reader and may have read a story about some kids who done just that. I can’ be sure.
But — at the time — in my opinion, Becca was a wimp and very sensibly kept on persuading me that we should go home when our street play allotted time was up.
I would stride back into my house and stomp upstairs to get ready for bed. Slamming a few doors for good measure. The only occasions I was not horrid at home, during this period, was when my Gran was visiting. It seemed to me she treated me like a grown up.
One evening I knocked for Becca as usual — and she flew out of the door. Her face red. She was huffing and puffing, lips pursed together in a line. Yep, Becca was mad about something.
As we walked over the field together, she explained her mum was going to marry her boyfriend and this meant they would have to move away. Over the other side of town, plus a change of school. And Becca was not happy.
Ready and willing to take advantage of this situation, I persuaded Becca tonight was the night we should run, run, run.
By this point, we’d already walked further than usual while chatting, and Becca looked around and realised she was in an unfamiliar street. However, I knew where we were, as the road was part of my walk to school.
Suddenly, she stopped dead in her tracks and stated, “let’s do it. Let’s run away.”
We both laughed and actually at this point literally started running. We were past our curfew and the street lights were coming on.
After about ten minutes, I too didn’t recognise where we were. The odd thing was this didn’t bother me. I felt as if I’d achieved something. Finally, I was somewhere else.
Not home.
Not near home.
Uncharted territory.
And for some reason that seemed to settle rather than scare me.
But of course we’d not planned a thing. It was nearly dark and after a while we both began to feel the cold.
Where could we go?
Where would we sleep?
What would happen tomorrow?
Becca started moaning and sobbing. The dreadful thing was I felt disgusted with her, but also annoyed at myself for not having been more pragmatic and brought coats and food. But the decision had been made on the spur of the moment. So I curtly told her to stop snivelling. And began to look around.
Without going much further, I recognised a road that was near to a friend’s house and knew I could get us back to our street from there. We were nearly three hours late. Almost at the same time a police car pulled up alongside. Popped us in the back and drove us home.
As we drew up to my house, both our mums came running out in tears, frantically sweeping us up into their arms. Becca was almost hysterical by now, and terrible as it may sound, I felt absolutely nothing.
But I was a smart kid and knew my life would be easier if I then did two things. Start crying. And say,
“I am so sorry, Mum. We got lost.”
So I did both.
But, in a way, I was dreadfully sorry because I loved my mum dearly.
Reflecting
I think at that time in my life I was more mixed up than I knew and felt very disconnected from everything. I was going through the motions.
Past abuse… can contribute to emotional detachment. Children who grow up in abusive situations may use this detachment as a way to cope.
On reflection, that incident and my childhood in general has had quite a bearing on the person I grew up to be. Over the years, I have often found different ways to run away, physically and occasionally just in my head. This story is about the first time, which must have been related to my emotional survival in some way. It felt rational to get as far away from home as I could that day.
Shortly after, my dad left and things improved for me mentally. But the residue of that evening stayed with me. As life continued, I contemplated that such an irrational impulse — to run away — could have turned out a lot worse than a few tears all round…
Epilogue
Becca and her family moved soon after. Then many years later, when I was a student. I managed to secure an office job over the summer holidays. Her stepdad — the guy they moved in with — was my boss. I didn’t realise until one day Becca walked into the office to meet him for lunch. We hadn’t connected for well over ten years, but knew the other immediately.
This is a very informative article about how different kinds of abuse impact a child.
This story was written to the prompt of First Time for Write Here… And also in line with Residues of a life not lived in KTHT Creative corner below:
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