One step. One step away from freedom. And still. I will never give him up to be free. My breath goes too fast, my shoes hit the ground in a sharp rhythm. Normally, I would watch where I was going. But not today. Blinded by my hot tears, I barely see where I actually am. Maybe it would've been different. In another life. I really wish I had this life. Feeling the tears streaming down my cheeks, I wipe them away angrily. You cannot break me. Everything around me is blurry, as if someone put a filter on the world to isolate me. To isolate me because I just don't belong here. Because I'm neither.
It's funny how few people actually care for what you're doing once you're through what you thought was the worst. When my mom died, everyone promised they were going to make sure I was alright for unrealistically the rest of my life. After the third visit of her grave, I understood that the pity party was over and none of these dickheads actually gives a damn about me.
I don't know for how long I've been running. I don't know when I decided to stop everything, either. To be honest, I don't think I'll stay away for long though. I can't. I just can't. He's everything I have left. Which is the best and worst at the same time. No matter how bad his mood is, no matter how often he beats me- I can't bring myself to hate him. Actually, I have no clue what to do. That's why I'm running. Running away from my problems. A metaphor coming true. I miss a shower. The small washcloth in my bagback just isn't enough. I want to be able to wash my hair, too. My hair feels disgusting, seriously. I should-

Suddenly, I stop- and freeze. In front of me, three feet away, is my former History teacher. He stares at me. Well, it's too late to pretend I didn't see him. So I resist the urge to role my eyes at him and approach him. Though I actually have no reason to, I feel annoyed and cross my arms in front of my chest in defense. "Maddie." I stare back. If he thought I was going to tell him anything right away, he wasn't as smart as I thought him to be. "What- what are you doing here?" he asks. I laugh sarcastically while crying initially. "I wanted to visit my teachers during summer vacation because I'm bored." I force myself to say. He looks confused. "That was a joke. I was kidding." I say it with the same voice one would say "Your parents had an accident". He doesn't laugh; it doesn't bother me. Actually, I'm very thankful that he doesn't. "Is... is everything alright?" I still feel empty. "Just... working out." I lie. As much as I wish this conversation to be over, I wish he wouldn't believe me. If I'm completely honest with myself, I wish he'd read the signs and would see that I was seeking for help. I want this life so bad. But I'm too proud to say something myself. To ask. To admit. "Go home, Maddie. You don't need to work out, you've already lost so much weight after..." he trails off but I know exactly what he means. What he was going to say.
After the death of my mom, I felt sad and cried until I didn't have any tears left. Then, I started to feel empty. I didn't do much these times. I stopped all of my hobbies, I forced myself to eat so I wouldn't become anorexic. And although I didn't become anorexic, my sorrow did make me lose some weight. I didn't know it was that obvious to everyone though. Well, it's not that they cared anyway.
I take a deep breath. "I can't." I say and before I start crying, I point at the streets and allow myself to add: "This is my home now." "WHAT?!" he looks shocked. I shrug uncomfortably. "What's the matter? You don't think I am the usual homeless person because of the way I talk, the way I'm dressed? Because I behave like a civilized person, a person with good grades, a person that likes museums and operas, a person that has a loving family?" After her death, everyone told my dad and I how good we were handling the whole situation. Nobody knew what happened behind the curtains. They either didn't see it or they simply didn't care. "No, I..." "But may I destroy your perfect illusion of the perfect girl that is »handling the whole situation in such a decent way, she's so strong! Her dad is so lucky to have her!«?" He seems hurt at the way I mimicked him. Already feeling the tears burning in my eyes, I start to yell: "But we're not this strong. This whole shit with »omg they're doing so good!« is a lie. It always has been one. We're not the happy family that lost a person. We're broken. We're broken and nothing can fix us again."
My dad turned to drugs. It was his way to numb the pain. First, it was only a little when he was feeling too much down. Later, it started to become more and more often and now, he's been addicted since a long time. I don't know what I fear more- when he gets so angry that he hits me and throws things at me, cursing, destroying, or the day he'll die because of an overdose. "Is it your dad?" he asks. I don't answer. But when I finally start crying, he figures he's been right. "Does he beat you?" He's noticed my bruises. Okay, how could he not? I've got a huge bruise on my forehead, from a shattered plate my dad threw at me not long ago. Another bruise from his beating is on my left cheek. "It's not him; it's the drugs." I suddenly whisper. And that's the reason why I can't hate him. Why I can't blame him. He's just as broken as I am, he's just dealing differently with it. He wants to numb the pain just as much as I want to. And I still haven't lost the hope that beneath all drugs, he still is the person I used to know. I used to love. It hurts. It hurts so bad to see hime like this. It's hard to lose a chosen one. I want to help him, I really do. And if that means I have to find a way to get help, I'll swallow my stupid pride and ask for it. "Dru-" "I need help." I say before I can overthink my decision. "We need help." "Yeah but-" "Please." He searched in his bag and hands me a small paper and a pen. I take it and write down my phone number and address. When I give him the paper, he looks like he wants to say something. I turn around. "Where are you going?" he finally asks. I face him again. "Home." I answer. "But your dad-" "I love him." As if that was enough of an explanation. He nods but I see in his expression that he doesn't understand. "I've got an elastic heart." I say and with these words, I turn around and start to run again.