Haha, I hope I can finish this before I have to go elsewhere.
I took a long, lasting gaze back at the tall house behind me, the house where I had spent 17 years of my life in. With a sigh, I turned my back to the past, and walked until the house was just a dark brown spot in the distance.
No one was going to miss me when I was gone, and I had no one to miss.
Not my parents. They were dead.
Not my friends. They were non-existent.
For the most part, I was running away was to escape everyone; the mean, despicable tormentors, the close-knit cliques, and even the ones who would smile slightly at me, knowing about my "independent" ways.
I just wanted to find a place where I could be on my own: not be judged, or looked down on.
So I packed up my bags and set off for the forest, the most solitary place I could think of.
I hummed as my dirty Converse hit the paved sidewalk, a random mix of pieces from songs that I've heard online. I stared off into the distance, the large green land of forest seemingly miles away.
"I've got promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep." I muttered, quoting one of Robert Frost's poems. I've never had that much interest in poems, but I smirked at how well that quote referred to my situation. In fact, some of the reason why I was running away was because of a promise I made, a promise I plan to keep.
When I was younger, I had a best friend. She was amazing. She could tell stories, and when she did, you felt like you were there right next to the main character; flying on dragons, high above the clouds, or slaying mean, sly monsters, trying to help a damsel in distress.
Together, we were planning on escaping to a forest and building a tree house somewhere deep inside, and living there where no one could touch us. We swore that we would do it.
Then she moved away, and I made a promise to myself that, mo matter what, I was making that tree house.
Her name was Anastasia. She was my best, and only, friend.
I grabbed a pen out of the small pack I carried, and started to doodle on my hands. I had taken to art after Anastasia's departure, as a way of giving back to her what her words made her visualize. My sketchbooks were full of flaming dragons and soft, graceful foxes, and the occasional prince or princess.
Gazing at the sky, I realized how long I had been walking. I left around noon, and the sun was now melting into the horizon, a gold-orange color fading into red painted brightly in the sky.
I sighed, and watched as the dark blue of the night faded into the sky. I loved the night; it was a time when everyone retreated into their homes and I could finally be in peace.
I was used to being outside at night. The muffled hoots of an owl, the winds curling around pieces of grass, all the sounds that I've grown so used to. I smiled as some deer appeared at the edge of the forest.
The forest? I soon realized that I had arrived at my destination, and sped up to reach the large, emerald-green trees and the wide, gentle river that ran through it.
"I made it." I muttered. My eyes seemed to have too much to take in; they kept darting from the flowers to the leaves to the trees.
I curled up in the shelter of the nearest tree.