text: I appreciate anyone that takes the time to read this. I should've tagged it realistic fiction instead of mystery, my bad. We have to write a short story for my English class about anything, about two pages long. Feedback is most certainly welcome. Trigger warning: abuse and suicide. Running: that’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at. Running from my problems; my responsibilities; the everyday problems in life that seem impossible to fix. When I ran away from home, I believed it to be a long term solution to my problems. I was eleven years old when my father stumbled in through the doorway, drunk like every other night this week. It was rare to see a day where he was sober- not that those moments offered any solace to me; they were only a brief escape from the personal hell I was living in. As soon as he crossed the threshold, the stench of alcohol and stale cigarettes permeated the room. I shrunk away from him, trying to disappear into the tattered couch that occupied the space of our living room, hoping that if I appeared small enough he wouldn’t notice me. His beady eyes shifted around the room before settling on me. The glazed look that was in his eyes can still send shivers down my spine to this day. He slowly made his way over to me, a few steps interspersed with drunken stumbling. I wanted to move, I wanted to escape- but where could I go? I didn’t have time to think much about it before he began yelling at me about how I was ruining his life. The words don’t sting so much anymore; I’ve grown used to them by now. Of course he knew that they barely stung, so he had to use a new way to hurt me. A punch to the face can hurt just as much as words, I found out that night. After he had passed out on the couch and the only sound in the air was his rumbling snores, I stole the few dollars he had in his wallet and ran. The side of my face was swelling but I ignored it for now. A single word was shouting over and over in my head, making itself heard and refusing to be ignored: Run. So I did; I ran until I could hear my heart beating in my ears and my lungs were screaming at me to stop. As much as I didn’t want to, I had to take a break. I slumped against a brick building, catching my breath as tears streamed down my cheeks. Here I am, years later, yet I still feel like I haven’t left that night. I can never quite catch my breath; I can still feel the sharp, shooting pain in my cheek. I’ve made a life for myself- I’ve got a home, a job, and food on the table. My father died five years ago due to liver failure (who would’ve guessed?) yet I’m still running. I’m running from my past into the unpredictable future which instills just as much dread into me. I don’t know what tomorrow brings, but one thing that I do know is that I am tired of running. My hand shakes slightly as I hold the gun in my hand. The tremor becomes more pronounced as I raise the cold, unfeeling piece of metal to my head. Every second feels like an eternity as I hold it, the key to the release I desire. The quiet tick of the clock makes its way into my subconscious, mocking me with its sound. When I’m dead, it will keep carrying on; the world will not stop around me, but I will. I wrap my trembling finger around the trigger. It’s ready to go; but am I? I am. I’m tired of running. I want to finally be able to rest and let go of my past. This is the one moment in my life where I fully welcome the unpredictable future. I can finally stop running. I pull the trigger. Everything goes black.