❝Trying hard to speak out, but when I’d try to reach out, felt like no one could hear me. Wanted to belong here, but something felt so wrong here, so I pray I could b r e a k a w a y.❞

Fliss didn’t think of it as running away, more so as escaping from this never ending hell in which she was living. The imprisonment she had faced resentfully but admittedly gracefully for the vast majority of her short life was something that she simply couldn’t live with anymore, not with her mind already set the way it was, not with the way that magic flowed through her veins, not with this plan that has already rooted itself deep in the corners of her mind, not with this incessant and hopeless plea from some sweet stranger deep in her mind that screamed helplessly at her to set them both free from this labyrinth of a life. The 12x12 room with which she was provided was nowhere near large enough to harbor her monumental dreams and overactive imagination. She was born a storyteller with no one to tell her tales to, not in this house full of realists. She had long given up her speech in a desperate attempt to make her parents just understand. No one could comprehend how she worked, not even herself sometimes. She liked to turn that loneliness into a sort of ‘one of a kind’ thing where she resided in her own world. It was an optimistic outlook for such a sick situation. Currently in this world she loved so dearly, she was lying on her back, head faced towards the ceiling, trying to think of how to approach this correctly. Did she leave a goodbye note tucked and crumpled under her pillow? Would a phone call when she reached her undecided destination suffice? The wheels of her mind turned at a hundred miles per hour, but this was not something out of the usual. Her brain never let her rest, not even when sleep came to her. Dreams took over the deepest corners of her mind during the unconscious hours; she let them. She wasn’t upset to think that this was the last time she would ever see this bedroom. Her finger paintings spread across the walls could be recreated at the next place she landed. She could find another window to look out at night when the stars came out to shine for her. ‘Home’ was nothing special to her, not now and probably not ever. She could barely even grasp the concept of home. Most people should picture a loving family and summer days where everything seemed to go right on the back porch and even arguments that ended in “I’m sorry, I love you.” This was foreign to her, as endless punishments and brutal abuse were made into an everyday thing, a part of her routine even. She never did figure out what she was doing that made her parents so disappointed in her, why they looked at her with such disgust in their eyes and hate in their hearts.

The freshly red-headed young girl dug out the old tape recorder she used to use as a child. A proper goodbye was in order, even if they didn’t care enough to give her a proper childhood. It felt somewhat necessary, so they didn’t do something stupid like call the police. Not that they would, she thought to herself. She sat down and crossed her legs in front of her on her bed, the recording device in front of her. All she had to do was find the right words, but this task proved more difficult than it sounded. She pulled her legs in on herself and thought hard, willing the sentences to form by themselves. Words were always a strange thing for Fliss. She hadn’t had to deal with them much lately, considering she voluntarily kept her mouth shut most of the time. She never could string together a sentence that explained just how she felt and she never could figure out the perfect question to ask, not even with the 1,019,729 words in the English language. Words could make or break someone. They could fool one into thinking another was just fine. They could twist a truthful statement into a slanderous lie. They could break the bonds of true love, or ruin someone’s happy ending. Their original use as just a way to communicate was laid to rest a long time ago. Actions were much easier than words. They portrayed what you really meant, instead of what you wanted people to think you meant. You couldn’t distort the truth in the way you carried yourself. You couldn’t pass judgments in the way you expressed emotions. She prepared a mental script of things she wanted to say— thank you for everything you tried to do and also thank you for nothing. You were never a friend to me, not even close, but I’m not bitter about that anymore. I’m off to find a better life, and I think that, without me, you’ll find a better life for yourselves. I never meant to make you unhappy, and for that, I am so sorry. I’m leaving now, and I’m going somewhere to find people like me. Goodbye. She cleared her throat to speak, and her voice came out as a strangled whisper. She gasped; it was too strange trying to talk again. Her throat wanted to close up and never let these words out of her mouth. She coughed and tried to speak again, this time coming out as an awkward but audible, broken voice. “G-goodbye, momma and d-daddy. I-I have to leave n-now. P-please don’t l-look for m-me. I’m h-happy now.” Her voice lilted in odd places and her southern accent was much less prominent than she remembered. She stuttered like a nervous child about to give a speech. It felt right anyway. She pressed stop on the recorder and tried to feel something, anything. Her conscience didn’t come to the front of her mind, begging her to stay. No bells rang in her head. So with that, the burdensome weight was lifted off of her weak and tired shoulders. She knew this was the best decision, because being chained another day longer to this house was not an option. She was a victim of her own imagination and a slave to her own creativity. Her prison guards being her own flesh and blood, and her locked cell being Boca Raton. The thought of leaving, of finally breaking this lock, brought her more joy than anything. Maybe she could bring her world to life in this new place full of people that were searching for the same thing she was: freedom, the one thing she’d never had that she craved the most.

She found that packing her things was easier than she envisioned it being. Packing should symbolize something, right? Her will to to leave overcoming her, or the pressure finally becoming too much, something like that. It was supposed to be dramatic, like in those runaway movies. She felt nothing. She had no emotional ties to this place, they were all cut when her mother’s hand reddened her cheeks that first time so many years ago. After that, she never felt anything besides confusion and a bit apologetic towards this place. Her photo album lay untouched on her bedside table, and she stuffed it into a bag without turning any pages. There was no need to drag herself down memory lane. Especially because that lane was filled with so many bumps and sharp turns. Fourteen years old and as young as she’ll ever be again, she felt an undeniable lightness shock through her as the tape recorder on her bed in sight of her parents. This early Saturday morning marked the end of her misery and the start of her new life. She grabbed a few more things—her camera, some paint, a few changes of clothes, her life savings of eighty-nine dollars, her old and worn copy of Peter Pan, and her pillow. If only Wendy had stayed with Peter. What a stupid girl. Everything she dreamed of was in Neverland. Maybe she could find a Neverland for herself wherever she found herself. This was a ‘fly or die’ type of deal. She started having her minor doubts. If escaping didn’t work out, she’d have nowhere else to go but back home. She could only imagine the unholy retributions she would receive, both physically and verbally. She shoved her second thoughts to the back of her head, along with any other negative emotion that came along with going out into the unknown. She pictured all of the bad things floating away. This was everything she ever wanted. She repeated that mantra over and over again in her head until it echoed through her body like a heartbeat. A new wave of adrenaline rushed through her as she put the bag on her back and unlocked the small window that was normally reserved for starry nights and days when she wanted to be like the normal kids and play on the swing set. Her small frame fit easily through the pane of the window, and she was on her way now. The sticky, humid Florida heat hit her and she was giddy with excitement. She hadn’t been able to even be outside in a few days because she wondered downstairs in the middle of the night and her parents caught her. A punishment that they knew would hurt her to the bone: confinement. Being locked up in her room was no way for her to live. The weather people usually complained about had never felt so liberating to her. And so she ran. As fast as her little legs could take her, she ran. She ran until she reached the bus stop downtown. This feeling of freedom was exhilarating. Why hadn’t she done it sooner? So long, paper town. You won’t be missed, she thought to herself. She took a seat on the bus and took a deep breath, cradling her head in her hands and breathing hard, because she was here and she was escaping.

March 28