Wolv

1 - I'm not free

    I ran.

    I darted over boulders, sidestepped fallen trees, and ran. Bare granite raced beneath my equally bare feet, and trees flew past me on either side.

   I didn't know where I was, or how I'd got there. But, as I glanced around, I couldn't help but feel at ease. Wherever I was, one thing seemed certain in my mind.

   I was free!

    I stopped running and sat down next to a stream, splashing water on my face to cool my skin. All around me was nothing but forest for miles, unbroken as far as my little eyes could see through the thicket. It was just me.

   No people.

   No cars.

   No drunken parents. I was alone.

    I cupped my hands and drank from the icy water, then stood up, brushing myself off. I looked around me, studying the endless sea of trees, broken only by upwellings of ancient, lichen-covered rock. A breeze blew past, bending the trees slightly.

    This was where I wanted to be. This was where I belonged; out here, alone. I loved it out here. Out here, I could be whoever I wanted, or whatever I wanted. I could run as far as I wanted, scream as loud as I could, and no one would stop me. I'd only been standing here for a moment, but...I truly felt free!

         *         *         *         *

    Slam!

   My eyes snapped open as the downstairs door was flung roughly open, no doubt punching yet another hole into the wall. My dream evaporated from my mind in a second as footsteps entered through the door, stumbling around, and bumping noisily into the walls. Dad was home.

    I sat up in the cot that acted as a sad excuse for my bed and rubbed my eyes awake, looking around me. Moonlight shone through the window, casting long shadows across the floor and up onto the heavily sloped ceiling above. The wooden planked floor shone dimly in the reflected light, accentuating the many cracks and splinters that ran through it.

   I pulled my blanket around me, shivering slightly. The room had no heating or air conditioning, making for icy nights in the winter and the spring, and sweltering ones in the summer. Given the frigid temperature in the room, combined with the fact that my "bed" was little more than a piece of plywood with half an inch of memory foam slapped on top, I'd already had enough trouble falling asleep. It seemed that the moment I managed to miraculously wish myself to sleep, my dad would stumble in the door, hammered beyond all recognition.

    I hated spending nights at my dad's. It wasn't just because I'd been relegated to sleeping in an uninsulated, drafty loft room; my dad was a roaring drunk. Even though I only spent the odd weekend here, I would stress about it for days in advance. Every night I'd ever spent here was the same: I'd walk inside, and find dad gone. I'd wash up and brush my teeth. I'd walk up the splinter-ridden stairs and into my "room," then I'd toss and turn for two hours trying to sleep. Without fail, at one a.m., dad would come home drunk and wake up half the neighborhood with all his banging and rummaging around. Once the front door had been found, he would fling it open, practically mashing the doorknob into the wall, and walk into every  freaking chair, wall, and cupboard in the house before finally finding his way to the fridge. If he hadn't passed out by then, he'd grab another beer, and his drinking buddy, Kal, would walk in the door. They would chat and laugh about nothing, then finally--mercifully--pass out after an hour or so, giving me four more glorious hours of silence before I had to get up and hurry off to work.