Running Away

chapter six: 1-800-GET-LOST

Edited.

S I X : THE PLAYER WANTS MY NUMBER? 1-800-GET-LOST.

- Taylor - 

I woke up what felt like an eternity later, with leaden limbs and heavy eyes. Sunlight was pouring through the window, bathing the entire room in its radiance, and I had to squint to be able to see even something in a five inch radius, but the smile that tugged at my lips was genuine. I hadn't slept so well in a long time; it had been a dreamless and vaguely unconscious, the kind of sleep that people craved when they were dead tired.

I scanned the floor for my slippers—the fluffy pink ones that had worn soles and were ripped slightly where my big toe fit, but were the most comfortable shoes in the world—but I couldn't spot them anywhere. Panic started to set in as I stumbled out of bed, my once muddled brain now alert and humming with anxiety. I spun on my heels when I realized that there was nothing familiar in the room that I was in; the light blue walls that I was accustomed to were a dull shade of cream, and there were autographed posters of famous bands taped up crookedly on both sides of the window. I was about to scream for help when my eyes fell on the view outside of the building.

It was breathtaking. The entire city was basking in the sun's warmth, the skyscrapers illuminated by yellow light, crowds of people that had been dwarfed to the size of ants because of my height—I was, after all, on the eighteenth floor—the traffic jam that had caused drivers to lean out of their windows and shout at each other. It was, put simply, a very normal scene, something that could be found in any large city. But what made it spectacular for me, was the enormous bridge in the distance; the Golden Gate, in all of its tall and scarlet glory.

I was in San Francisco, in Devon's apartment, after having run from home.

All the pieces were falling into place, and relief washed over me when the realization hit. I chuckled to myself, feeling like an absolute idiot for having thought that I had somehow been kidnapped. Excitement replaced the once harried frustration as I swept my gaze over the sight below me one more time. I was in San Francisco, one of the most beautiful cities in the world, I didn't have to worry about being seen outside of my parents' house, and I had a car—I could literally do whatever I wanted (within reason, of course, but still).

I found Devon in the kitchen once I finally tore my stare away from the bridge and decided to venture into the hall. He grinned at me as he slid a couple slices of bacon around inside of a pan, gesturing to the dining table, where there was already a full plate of breakfast and some orange juice waiting.

"You certainly know how to treat your guests well," I commented thickly, speaking through a mouthful of toast and scrambled eggs. "This is delicious."

"Thanks," Devon laughed, slapping a napkin down in front of me. "You are a girl, right, Taylor? Because you eat like a starved bloodhound."

I shrugged, choosing not to stick my tongue out at him. Instead, I grabbed the dish of bacon from his hands, tipping its contents onto my own plate. "That's because I'm hungry. I haven't eaten since I left Seattle yesterday."

"What?" Devon choked on the coffee he was drinking, and I smacked at his back, preparing to use whatever minimal Heimlich maneuver knowledge I had gained from watching medical shows on television. "Why didn't you eat at a drive-through, or something?" He demanded, gaping at me incredulously.

I felt embarrassment seep through me at that. The reason I hadn't stopped at McDonald's to pick up food was something admittedly silly, but I couldn't help it at the time. "I was afraid that someone would recognize me." I mumbled. "Which, I realize now, was really stupid, because if no one has ever seen me, how would they recognize me?"