I Ran Away & No one Even Knew

[accuscripter]

It was all messy and a bit smelly as well around me. Suddenly, I felt a warm streak running down my nose onto my lips. Afraid of ruining the paper under my dancing fingers, I immediately pushed myself away from the table and wiped my nose. To my surprise, it was blood.

"Hah…" A small laugh escaped my lips. All through my school years, I had desperately wanted to have a nosebleed, or a dizzy spell; pretending like the weak girls who got held by sturdy teachers and rushed by warm hearts to the infirmary, offered juice, cookies, or chips, and, in the best cases, a day off.

And here I was, sitting alone in my dark cabin amid piles of pages, finally getting a nosebleed.

What luck! I couldn't even take advantage of this blood and sweat. I chuckled as I pushed a rolled tissue into my nose while holding my head up, staring at the ceiling that seemed, if I kept staring too long, as though it might fall on me.

I was always an overthinker. Everything I saw turned into a story, into a chronicle. And honestly, no one was really interested in what I had to say. Reason? Simple; because they didn't understand me. But I won't complain; even I couldn't understand myself at times.

Coming back to the point: I was staring at the ceiling. Then, after a minute or so, I drew my attention back to my work and; ugh! there was a big blotch of blood on my paper.

"No, no, nooo…" I cried as I tried to wipe it away. But deep inside, I knew it was useless. After all, I knew better than anyone that it was too late now. Maybe.

I cast a last look at the writing I had finally produced after months, and now it was ruined. I was about to throw it away, but then that blood dot looked a little too beautiful.

Amid my illegible writing, it looked almost romantic.

And here's the thing; I've always hated that word romance. Always been grossed out by it whenever someone asked me if I liked that specific genre. The reason is simple: people have screwed up the definition, twisted it into the corniest, grossest expressions of sentiment. Warped it into something cheap, dripping with sickly-sweet clichés. And worse; they think anyone who likes romance must be some honey-dripping, pink-heart-wearing, drooling little fool.

But deep inside me, romance has always been something sacred. To this day, I believe romance is a holy word: To me, romance is the quiet devotion to whatever you love. Whatever you want to protect. The will to live. The passion to finish what you started. The stubborn struggle to keep going, even when you hate every second of it. That; that right there; is romance in my dictionary. Not the shallow male–female carnal, flirtatious mawkishness its been reduced to.

A quiet devotion to yourself; that's what I call romance. That's what I call romantic.

 

[accuscripter]

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[accuscripter]

It was really beautiful. And I love beautiful things. I've always been attracted to beauty. Now, many of you will probably say I'm materialistic; no, no, not materialistic. What's the word… hmmm… oh yes, "the one who only judges a book by its cover." Yeah, fine, say whatever you want; I am one of those. I judge a book by its cover. That's what compels me to open it in the first place Man! So yes, I'm attracted to beauty. I'm all up for it.

That actually reminds me; when I was young, maybe in fourth grade, there was this girl in my class. I don't remember how she was as a student, like I don't know if she ever got good marks or not. But one thing I knew was that even before I knew her, or even saw her clearly, I had already started to like her.

I don't know if she was beautiful; or if what she had could even be called "beautiful" by worldly standards. But one thing I was sure of: I liked her. Like i really liked her.

…Wait. Hold up. Does that mean I'm not a superficial person? Yeahhh, I take back my words; I'm not superficial after all, I guess. That means anything I like, anything I love, is automatically beautiful in my eyes. Doesn't that mean I have beautiful eyes?

Damnnnn

But now you'd probably call me self-obsessed, right? Well, honestly, isn't that a good thing? To love yourself? These days half the pop stars and singers are screaming about self-love. And here I am; already ahead of the curve. I've achieved the milestone. You should congratulate me, not call me selfish or obsessive.

Ugh… there I go again, wandering into another overthinking episode. Apologies. Coming back to the blotch. The red, beautiful, bloody blotch.

I stared at it. And it stared back at me; like a self-aware maiden shrieking at a shameless pervert with her high-pitched voice: "Where do you think you're looking?" My ears burned. My first piece of writing in months; sacrificed to my own blood.

No, no. Not sacrificed. Stamped with my blood. Yes, that sounds more romantic, doesn't it? Damn. Even my explanations are becoming romantic now.

I looked around the room, paper in hand. Where to throw it? I wanted to toss it away, but not crumple it. So I held it flat, loosened my fingers, and let it fall. It rested on the floor. I pulled out another paper, but then this severe, gnawing guilt hit me; as if I'd just committed some ignorant sin. A sin enough to banish me, cut off my hands, maybe even execute me without warning, without a second thought.

I immediately snatched it back up.

"Where should I put you, miss?" I asked the paper.

Without waiting for an answer, I flicked it toward the dustbin under my table. And damn; the arrogant piece landed perfectly, lying flat across the rim of the bin like it owned the place, and was too proud to fall in.

Ugh. I picked it up again and finally placed it on the side of my table. Like a precious bouquet given by a lover, one you keep in sight so you can feel the energy and love radiating from it; until it withers away.

Except this paper wouldn't wither. Not anytime soon, I presume.

I let out a sigh.



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[accuscripter]

I started writing again. On a new sheet of paper. The older one sat near it on the table, staring at me with its bloody stare.

I started writing, but as I did, I cast a nervous look at the older one. You know that nervousness you feel when a teacher is peeking at your paper from behind? Even though you know what to write; you've practiced so hard, for so long; that one stare is enough to send your head into a jumble. And out of that confusion, you forget everything you wanted to say. So you just scribble something down, then sneak a glance at the teacher to see if she gives you that little nod, the kind that says, yes, my child, you're doing it right.

Well… I was feeling the same thing with that older paper and my new writing.

"Dear family…" I began. And then, confusedly, I rolled the pen between my fingers. Family? I don't even have that big of a family that can be called A FAMILY… I thought.

Hmm. I kept thinking, then took an embarrassed glance at the older one, like I was cheating in an exam, desperate for clues that might help me get started. I just needed a hint. Just one. But; ugh! voilà, I saw I hadn't written any salutation on that one either. Useless. No clue there.

"Ahhh… so should I write family?" I questioned out loud, hovering my hand over the paper and scratching my head absently with the other.

Family… hmm. I have a mother. I have a father. I have sisters. I have brothers. I have sisters-in-law and brothers-in-law. So… is this family? I thought to myself.

Uh-oh. Step-siblings. Which also reminds me of the second wife of my father. But no; I won't call her mother. Be it step or not.

What is step, anyway? What about this word actually clarifies that this woman is not MY mother, but only the love interest of a man who played a part in birthing me; my father? And the children he had with that other lady… well, do I even think I have any relation with them? Or do I???

Step… hmmm. Well, they are his wife and his children. All step for me. I have no objection; his life, his choices. Got nothing to do with me. Though his first wife… and my mother… I think she might be hurt pretty badly. After all, she served her whole life just to protect this so called family. The one I can't seem to get a hang of, even after all these years.

I think this step word, it's a pretty boring word to say that they are not related to me but related to me? Don't you think?

Ufff. Another overthinking spell. But I must say, I don't have any issue with them; especially not the kids, they're not at fault. But still… I cannot really call them family, can I??? But then again, does that mean my non-step siblings can automatically be called family either? Right? (At this point, the way I'm using step and non-step, I'll end up writing nonsense. Which, honestly, might fit better than anything else.)

So, returning to the point: in my dictionary, family is someone who loves you, protects you, supports you, worries about you, and is always there for you. Be it a blood relation or not. And even if they are step; if they really care about me; I wouldn't be able to create any sort of prejudice against them.

So… the question is: to whom am I even writing?

Like, family-family. As in just the word, the term, the legal bond that defines the family as a group of people bound together by law. Or the people who actually care for me, like in real terms.

Ahhh… my head is hurting at this point. I think it will turn to another useless effort.

Hmm.

I think … Let's change the question, shall we?

Who in the family might be most worried about me right now?

The one I need to write to?

Or the one who actually wants me to write to them…


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[accuscripter]

So who is the one who wants me to write to them?
The one who's desperate for any scrap of news that says I'm alive and well.

Well… here comes another tornado of thinking, but STOP!!! I literally snapped myself before I got engulfed by the airy flames of that monstrous tornado of overthinking.

"Let's leave the salutation for now, shall we?" I said out loud, clapping my hands once like a teacher ending a class. Then I stood up. I started stretching.

Oofff. As I stretched my spine, well, what stretch? I simply bent a little to touch my knees, and damn, the cracking noises. Okay, I might be exaggerating, but they sounded like trying to crunch Lay's chips quietly at night, terrified the whole house will know you're snacking.

Then I bent to the right side, then to the left side. Each side rewarded me with more cracks, cracks like the joints of a seventy-year-old who's spent a lifetime working construction.

Something bubbly sat in my chest. Heavy, like a balloon stuck halfway to inflating. I tried breathing deeply. Nope. Nothing came out.

Then I thought of something. I put both hands behind my head, tried to bring my elbows together, then apart, stretching my spine backwards, pop! Another sound, right from the center of my ribs, exactly where the manubrium meets the body of the sternum, the so-called manubriosternum joint.

You must be thinking, wow, he's some medical geek, tossing out anatomy terms like confetti. No, don't take it too far. No one in my family is a doctor or even a nurse. (We're more outpatient material than healthcare providers, honestly. You've probably seen that Instagram reel: I'm a therapist, but I have more potential as a patient. That's us. Yup we nope especially me, I belong in the waiting room, not behind the stethoscopes.)

But because I'm dramatic, and also because I like knowing names for my pains, I had been Googling. And I found out something fascinating: the sternum used to be called gladius, a Roman word for sword, because of its resemblance to one, especially the xiphoid process, which comes from xiphos, the Greek word for sword.

I loved that. I found myself thinking: I have a sword in my chest. One that is mine alone. A mystical object only I can draw, with my own name etched on the blade. No one else gets the honor of wielding this sword. Just me.

And as I'm telling you this, it actually reminds me of a Korean drama. What was its name? Goblin. The Lonely and Great Guardian. Yes, that's it. It's been so long since I watched it, 2017 maybe, but I do remember there was this goblin who had a sword in his chest that could only be seen by his bride, and only his bride could pull it out.

Well… as I'm thinking of that, I'm feeling a little blushy you know. A little giddy. Don't pretend to be ignorant, you know why I'm feeling shy. I can't seem to remove the smile off my face. My bride. The only second owner of my sword.

"LEAVE ITTT! What are you doing to meeee?" I scold myself. "I said I don't like romantic genre. Don't misguide me!"

But that's exclusive, don't you think? My bride, my sword and me…

Awwwww… its cute, don't you think a runaway who cannot even think of whom to write to is thinking of his bride. Lets leave it I guess.

But when I read that (about the sword this not the bride thing), I felt good beyond words. I actually massaged my chest like I was polishing that secret sword, smoothing the hilt, tracing the blade under my skin. (Of course, this was after the "pop" had already escaped my chest, because that's when I finally sat down again, looked it up, and then kept writing.)

Ahhhhh… but that felt soooo good. If it hadn't, I probably would've convinced myself I had some sort of heart disease, because presumably, chest issues usually mean heart issues, right? Be it physical heart issues or mental heart issues.

Before I continue, let me tell you something, and after you read this you might even want to hit me. So… sorry in advance.

After all that, stretching, searching, sword-daydreaming, when I finally picked up my pen, determined to leave the salutation portion for now and just continue, I realized something.

I'd had this exact same process of thought, the same loop, a few hours ago when I left it in the first place, in my earlier blood-blotched letter.

I smacked my forehead with my palm. Snap. "Damn it, you good-for-nothing fool," I muttered. "The only thing you have right now is time and you can't even handle it, can't even manage it…"

I said it out loud. To myself.
The same thing you're probably saying to me behind your screens right now, right?


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[accuscripter]

Life is really strange. Sometimes it goes your way. Sometimes it doesn't go your way. I can't seem to understand people who say life is easy, life is enjoyable, or life is worth living. Like, seriously? I don't even feel like putting in the hard work of lifting food to my own mouth and chewing it because even that feels hectic and you're telling me life is interesting and good? Strange, isn't it. Either you're too naïve or you're too confident for your own good.

I was thinking all of this with my face cupped in my hand, still holding the pen, thinking about how strange and irritating life is, when I realized again that I'd had the same thought process, the same wasted time, when deciding on the salutation in my earlier letter. The blood-blotched one.

I raised my head and started writing, finally.

"I am well. I am happy."

Am I? Am I really happy?
Leaving my house. My family.
Do I really have not an ounce of guilt for leaving them behind out of my own selfishness?
They raised me. Brought me up. Fed me. Protected me.
Am I mocking them by writing, after leaving their rosy life, "I am happy finally"?
Have I gotten my salvation? Isn't that too assured of me to say?

What is a "rosy life," by the way? Eating? Drinking? Being able to smile?
I can't even stand on my own definition of a rosy life here. I can't eat or drink without fear of wasting money. And I can't even smile. I don't know what to smile about anymore.
I think people who can smile easily have no fears.
But I have too many fears.

Fear that I might be found.
Fear that I might not be found.
Fear that my family might be suffering without me.
Fear that they might not be suffering without me.
Fear that I'll run out of money.
Fear that if I don't run out of money, I'll run out of life.
Fear that if I keep writing, someone will open the door and read over my shoulder.
Fear that if no one ever opens the door, this room will eat me alive.

I scratched that line and started writing again.

"I am well. I am alright."

Am I? Am I really alright?
I looked around at this messy, smelly little cabin with its dim yellow light. My suitcase sitting in the corner, its contents spilling out like an uncontrolled vomit. And the piles of old pages and books of the previous tenant still there.
You thought those piles were mine? No, no. I'm not that much of an intellectual. I even find reading a novel a task. I'd rather spend that time on something else. The only things I brought with me were a suitcase with a few necessities, some money, and a file with A4 sheets and two or three ballpoints. That's it. The rest of the things aren't mine.

I scratched again.

"I am well. You don't have to worry at all."

Don't worry? Are they even worrying about me? Isn't that too opinionated of me to say they'll be worried about me? That's so pathetic of me, isn't it? To write "don't worry," when they might not even be worried. Am I trying to tell them they should be worried? Is that what I'm doing putting words in someone else's mouth?
I shouldn't presume.
I shouldn't assume things about others on my own.

I scratched it out again and started again.

"I am well. I am safe."

Safe? Safe from what? From who? From myself? The lock on the door rattles at night even when no one's there. I sleep with one eye open like a fugitive. What kind of safety is this where even the silence feels like it wants to strangle me?

Or am I really trying to say I wasn't safe before? That I felt unsafe in my own family's house, and now I'm safe only because I'm gone? Am I mocking them with that? Insulting their inability to protect me? Or am I just casting my own failure to feel safe onto them because it's easier? Am I not too old for that now too pompous, even, to write it this way?

I scratched hastily and taking a deep breath, focusing my gaze on the words I was about to write. My mouth was twisted. I could feel it. I wrote again.

"I am well. I am alive."

Alive? Am I?

I glanced at my reflection in the grimy window my eyes hollow, my hair tied in a loose knot, lips dry and cracked. Alive? Sure. Breathing? Yes. Living? Not sure. Maybe I'm just existing in a borrowed room with borrowed air, writing borrowed words.

Alive? Am I?
Or am I just a ghost, leaving notes for people who may never read them?

I wrote it again, slower this time.

"I am alive."

The pen hovered over the page, trembling. I added a period, then scratched it out, then added an exclamation mark instead. No, that looked ridiculous. I changed it back to a period. My hand shook so much that the ink pooled into a tiny black blotch just like before.

I laughed, a small, cracked sound. Déjà vu. Always back to the same loop. Always back to the same blotch.


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[accuscripter]

To understand a human is like knowing the depth of the deepest ocean. Even if you could measure it, you'd never truly understand it. Humans are strange creatures, you see, living just to survive the cruelty of their own choices, and suffering for the choices they couldn't take. Human nature, as we call it: the most beautiful yet the most complicated design. Impossible to fully comprehend, but irresistible to study.

And I am one of them. The same human.
I have complicated emotions.
I hurt people to protect them.
I avoid them to avoid disagreements.
I bury myself every day and relive every day as someone else. Sometimes I'm a people-pleaser. Sometimes I'm rude. Sometimes I'm selfish. Sometimes I'm nothing at all. And those days, those were the days I was the rebel. A tyrant who went against his family.

But honestly, I never truly hated how they felt about me. Yes, there was a time I'd get angry, try to defend myself. But with time I stopped. I just wanted to crawl inside my own shell, away from all noise and interruptions. And when you start viewing things from different perspectives, you become less judgmental. That's why I left. To give myself the silent space to see things differently.

…

I finally decided on what to write.

I am well. I am in the city.
I don't know when I'll be back, but I must say I went away for my own personal reasons. Take care, all. If fate allows, I will not disturb you ever again.

Sam.


"This is the last time I am using this name. From today on a me named Sam will not exist." I said to myself.

I didn't like the name they gave me, Sam. So I named myself. Kai. It has many meanings. In Hawaiian, it means "sea" or "ocean," vastness and depth. In Japanese, also "sea," or "firm, strong, steadfast." In Chinese, it means "victory" or "triumph." In Scandinavian, "warrior" or "rejoice." This is why I chose it. I want to become what my name symbolizes. I heard names impact personality, so why not use this as a way to influence myself with good energy?

…

The final rough draft sat in front of me, and I slumped back in the chair, staring at the messy page with a kind of gloom I couldn't name.

Human nature is strange. In the middle of severe emotions, when you want to break through walls, bang on your chest, cry your eyes out, you suddenly feel hungry. And that hunger makes you feel even more miserable. It's the peak of human weakness: you can't even mourn without wanting food or needing the bathroom. That's how delicate we are.

I remembered once, at the hospital with my sister who was in labor. While she was in the ward, I saw a woman banging on her chest. She'd just miscarried at eight months, just weeks before her baby's delivery. The resident doctor kept urging her to eat; she refused. Finally, I heard her say:


"If you don't eat now, then later, when the baby is taken out and you're at your lowest, you'll feel even more depressed. In such a serious moment, when you think you don't deserve to breathe, you'll still get hungry. But that's human nature. You have to eat so you can be sad at the proper time. I won't say don't cry. I'll say be prepared. You still have kids at home."


That's exactly how I felt now. Writing a letter back home to tell them about me. And at this peak moment, when I was supposed to cry and feel sad, I was actually hungry. Severely hungry. To the point where the tears blurring my vision were more from hunger than from the hurt of leaving home, or from the severities I'd faced.