The grandfather clock in the lounge struck twelve. In the attic, a cellphone alarm went off. It was time. Callan hauled his tired frame out of bed.

"Midnight. I had to choose midnight," he grumbled to himself. He crept down to his brother's old room, took his hiking pack, and stole his brother's laptop for good measure. Back in the attic, he filled the pack with clothes, a pair of shoes, the laptop, and any other necessities that would fit. Including all his art stuff. The pack was quite big, so it all fitted comfortably.

   Callan threw on some dark jeans, his grey "Revolution Sucks" t-shirt, black converse, and his favorite hoodie. He carried the pack downstairs, and decided to raid the kitchen before he left. Soon, his hoodie pockets were filled with packets of candy, the pouches on the pack were stuffed with fruit and cookies, and any space in the pack had some kind of tasty food in it. The oreos, though, got a place of honor... his stomach (well, he ate them after he left the house).

   His final action in the Burkhardt household was to steal some of the money from his father's safe. The code was his older brother's army serial number, which was convenient, since the whole family was expected to have memorized it (not to mention it was written on a piece of paper on Mr. Burkhardt's desk).

   Then Callan was free! All he had to do was catch the train out of town, and he'd be entirely free. On his way to the train station, he saw an orange glow in the darkness. A cigarette. And no-one in this God-forsaken town smoked... in public, that is.

   He checked the time on his phone. 12:40 am. The early-morning train only stopped at the station at 01:05 am, so he had enough time to cause some trouble. He approached the glow, only to find out it belonged to Douglas Pyle-of-crap. Before Callan could turn away, the bully spoke.

"Burkhardt? What are you doing out here?" Pyle asked, quickly throwing the cigarette over his shoulder. Callan mumbled something about getting some fresh air, which made Pyle laugh.

"With a back pack? Yeah right, and I'm an orangutan," he sneered. Callan wanted to say Yes, yes you are, but thought it would be best to hold his tongue. He didn't want to get beaten up and miss the train.

"I thought I'd take it for a walk," he said instead, staring at the perfectly manicured lawn they were standing on. Pyle guffawed loudly, making him sound like a gorilla with nasal issues.

"I knew you weren't normal, but damn, I never thought you were this crazy," he grinned. Callan shrugged. Best to let his bully ramble on. Saves him from having to wait for the train.

"I think you're running away. Tough-guy Burkhardt's running away! Oh, this is just too sweet!" Pyle snickered. Callan couldn't help it. He'd suffered Pyle's bullying his whole life. This was the final straw.

"Yeah? So what if I'm running away? I'd rather go out there, having no clue on where to go next, than to have to stay here and suffer the same tedious routine day after day. Maybe here I'm not normal, but out there... somewhere out there I fit in, and it's you people who are abnormal. Find someone else to pick on, Pyle, I'm tired of being your punching bag," Callan said angrily, before storming off.

   He got to the station, just to witness the train pulling away. He'd missed the damn train, thanks to Pyle. And he had no idea when the next train came through.

"Excuse me, when does the next train stop here?" he asked the grey-mustached man who sold the train tickets.

"Next one shows up about six am, but is heading in the opposite direction to the one that just left. Next one going that way is at 11 am. Sorry son," the man replied. He sounded genuinely sorry, and when Callan looked him in the eye, he saw a friendly twinkle.

"Well, I can't wait that long. How far is it to the next station?" Callan asked.

"About 24 miles, more or less. If you're thinking about walking that far, you'd be crazy to try," the man answered. Callan clenched his jaw.

"Sir, I've been suffering here my whole life, born in a place where I stick out like a sore thumb. I'd be crazy not to try," he said. The man smiled warmly, a smile filled with respect.

"You're a spirited one. Here's some advice: when you hear a train coming, make sure you aren't in a tunnel, and get the hell off of the track, or you'll splatter against the front of the train like a bug on a windshield. And save your phone battery. You can't exactly charge those fancy smartphones in the middle of nowhere. Here, take a map," the mustached man handed Callan a map, and wished the boy luck.

"Sir, before I leave... I'd like to know your name," Callan said. The man smiled again.

"Seymour Wilson. And yours?" he asked.

"Callan. Callan Burkhardt."

"Well, nice to meet you, Callan. You'd best be off if you don't want anyone to catch you. I'll tell them you went the other way. I have no love for these people."

   Callan thanked Seymour, and ran onto the tracks. His journey had begun.

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A/N:

Hello readers! Chapter 2 is here! I hope you're enjoying Callan's story so far. I am entering this brand new story into the Wattys, so please vote, comment, and follow, if you think the story's worth it.

Enjoy, Wattpadians!
Your lousy author,
Wolfthorne