The Girl Who Learned To Run Away

Anna’s Pov

"She's always been a burden."

My mother's voice cut through the walls. I pressed my back against the bedroom floor because maybe if I stayed still enough I would disappear completely.

"We should have been stricter with her from the beginning," my father said in that calm voice that made my stomach turn. When he was calm it meant he had already decided something.

I pulled my knees to my chest, staring at the peeling paint on my ceiling. Looking at anything else would make me cry over people who never wanted me in the first place.

"Three years of school with nothing to show for it," my mother continued. Her footsteps paced outside my door. "Failed every class then dropped out like some delinquent. Now she just sits in that room dancing around, writing in those stupid notebooks like that's going to pay bills."

The notebook under my pillow felt heavy but I couldn't pull it out. My hands were shaking too much. Besides, what was the point when nobody would ever read the words anyway?

My door handle turned without warning. I scrambled to my feet as my father walked in without knocking. Privacy was something he said I hadn't earned even though I was twenty one years old.

"Dinner," he said, looking at me like I was a stain. "Downstairs. Now."

I followed him down the stairs. My legs felt weak but I forced them to keep moving because showing weakness in this house was like showing blood to sharks.

The dining table had five plates but only three had actual food. Mine was just white rice that looked old with crusty edges.

My older sister Marissa was already sitting down. She glanced at me for half a second before looking away like acknowledging my existence would contaminate her. My younger brother didn't even bother looking up from his phone.

"Anna," my mother said as she sat down. Her hands folded in front of her plate. "Your father and I have been discussing your situation."

I kept my eyes on the rice without saying anything. Speaking would only make things worse.

"You're twenty one years old, still living under our roof while contributing absolutely nothing to this household," my father said. He cut his steak into perfect squares. "We've decided you need to start paying rent."

My head snapped up. The movement was so fast my neck cracked. "What?"

"Five hundred dollars a month," he continued without looking at me. "Starting next week."

"I don't have a job," I said. My voice came out smaller than I wanted. "How am I supposed to pay you five hundred dollars when I don't have any way to make money?"

"That sounds like a personal problem," my mother said with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Maybe it will motivate you to actually do something productive with your life instead of wasting our resources."

I pushed my chair back. The legs scraped against the floor with a sound that was too loud in the quiet room.

"Sit down," my father ordered.

"No," I said. The word felt powerful coming out of my mouth for the first time in my entire life.

I turned away from the table. My mother called after me but I didn't stop because if I stayed there one more second I would say things that couldn't be taken back.

I went to my room, locked the door even though I knew my father had a master key. I pulled the backpack from under my bed to start throwing clothes into it. I didn't think about what I was grabbing because planning meant thinking meant realizing how stupid this idea was.

T shirts, jeans, underwear, socks, my notebooks. Those were the only things in this house that actually belonged to me. I wasn't leaving them behind for my parents to throw away or burn.

At one in the morning I opened my window as quietly as possible. I climbed out onto the roof. The cold air hit my face like a slap but I welcomed it. It meant I was outside, one step closer to freedom.

The jump to the ground was about eight feet. I landed hard on the grass. My ankle twisted but I ignored the pain to start running down the street. My backpack bounced against my shoulders.

I made it three blocks before I saw headlights turning the corner. My heart dropped into my stomach. I knew those headlights, knew that car, knew I was about to get caught.

My father's car stopped in the middle of the street. The door opened. He got out to look at me standing there under a streetlight with my backpack, my twisted ankle, my pathetic attempt at escape.

"Anna," he said. His voice was so calm it made my skin crawl. "I know you're out here."

I didn't move. Moving would confirm I was there even though he could clearly see me with nowhere to hide.

He walked over to grab my arm hard enough to bruise. He dragged me back to the car. I tried to pull away but he was stronger, I was tired, the fight left my body like air leaving a balloon.

The drive home was silent. When we got there my mother was standing at the door. Her arms were crossed, her face twisted into something ugly, satisfied like she had been waiting for this moment.

They took my phone. My father grabbed my arm again to drag me upstairs, shove me into my room. I heard them slide something heavy against the door from the outside. I couldn't get out even if I tried.

I crawled into bed to pull the blanket over my head. I cried until my throat was raw, my eyes were swollen, I couldn't cry anymore. There were no tears left.

Three weeks passed. I lived in that room like a prisoner because that's what I was. Every day I felt myself disappearing a little more until I wasn't sure there was anything left of me to save.

Then one day my mother left her phone on the bathroom counter while she was in the shower. I grabbed it to text Camilla faster than I had ever typed anything in my life.

"I'm ready to try again."