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.

 

[accuscripter]

You know what? When a man reaches the end of his wits, when he's completely trashed his senses, losing his sanity out of sheer desperation, obsession, and irritation, he laughs.
Yup. He laughs.

And that was exactly my situation at that moment.

My eyes were blurred with tears, my voice locked tight in my throat. I couldn't even whisper a single word, out to myself. and then out of hopelessness, I fell back onto the bed, body limp and heavy, tears sliding down my temples.

aghhh...The effort it took just to raise my arm and place it across my eyes, to hide from myself while I wept, felt like swinging a heavy axe and laying it on my own face. Each movement was heavily breathtaking, each breath a gasp.

i couldnt really understand my motive behind this action...Maybe I was too used to my family keeping tabs on me, monitoring every move, every breath, that even now, in this cramped little cabin, I couldn't relax. Or maybe… maybe I was still hiding from myself. but I couldn't understand why. Why was I covering my face? Why not just let my arm fall and let the tears do what they wanted? Why was I afraid of being seen, by me?

damn.... i am really tired of myself, spinning off to tell too much ...!!! What was I even saying earlier? let me read back what i was saying....

Ah, yes. yes yes.... so we were talking about the, "The peak of human desperation."

coming back to the original plot...

So there I was, arm pressed over my eyes like a blindfold, the weight of it making my eyes ache, the pressure making me dizzy, and I realized something really awkward and strange.
and that was ... I was smiling.

huh???? smiling? or crying? both??? seriously???
"Am I happy to cry?" I thought.
"Have I lost it?" I thought again.

No, that couldn't be. I was thinking, wasn't I? That meant I hadn't lost it. Not yet, at least.
And then… I started laughing.

Not just smiling; laughing. Hysterically.
As if someone had cracked a joke.

Well, honestly, someone had cracked a joke. Me.

Because, now that I think about it, I don't remember ever laughing at someone else's joke. I always laughed at my own. I think I've always had that clown vibe, a jester in my own circus.

A joke, to myself.
A joke, of myself.

Ugh. And here I go again, back into that vicious cycle of thinking.

ufff...

Anyway, back to the crying. Yes, me. A full-grown handsome man (you will again think i am self-obsessed right? well i will not leave any moments of praising myself where i deserve it okay! i seriously had inherited the good genes, though i had pretty much ruined them and hidden them in my messy flabbergasted lifestyle) sooo... me a full grown man, with a beard and a low, raspy voice (the kind that is usually in the night bed time stories app);

i think i enjoy irritating you with my sheer display of vanity and obsession... you see ... hahaha ... jokes aside ...

sooo ... inshort ... i was the kind of man society would call "capable," "in control," "strong," dependable," and "clear". and there I was, having hysterical attacks of crying and then sudden bursts of laughter, all because and only because I was too hungry. (the only thing going in my head was the grumbling of my stomach."

now you will say. i had some money !!! why i didnt use it?? why i didnt got something for myself???

because as i said earlier.... for money, I'd already decided not to waste it on mediocre mortal needs like food. Eating felt beneath me, somehow petty and somehow weak.
though my body totally disagreed, and actually mocked me for this chimerical plan.

And then....
I heard a sound.

A screech.

It was a rat.


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[accuscripter]

Hogwarts in himself: Severus Snape

a SLYTHERIN
LOYAL like HUFFLEPUFF
WISE like RAVENCLAW
BRAVE like GRYFFINDOR

COMING SOON....

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[accuscripter]

I wasn't always the youngest child. Even if we count my step-siblings, I'm still the youngest now. But I remember, I wasn't always the last. Once, I had a baby sister. I had a baby sister once. She was so small. So soft and so cold. I remember her smell, like something still half-made by heaven. She couldn't talk; she could only cry and stare into open spaces, her tiny eyes trying to make sense of this strange world. I loved holding her. I really did.

But sweet things never last long, do they?
And she was the sweetest of them all.

She was born on October 11. I remember that day like it's carved into me. My mother was crying. My father was trying to sound brave. I was just staring at her, this tiny wiggling thing fighting to live. The doctors had said she had auditory issues and a congenital heart disease. Everyone tried to take it lightly.

I remember my father saying, "Don't worry, love. With modern medicine, she'll live. Everything will be fine."
But my mother turned away, from him, from the baby, from all of it. As if hope itself was too heavy for her to hold.

That night was cold. Autumn air had that sharp edge to it, where days are sunny but nights bite. I remember looking at the baby, really looking, and she looked right back.

You might not believe this, but I swear she said my name.
"Sa… Sa…"

Then her tiny hand, so fragile it could break with a sigh, wrapped around my finger. Just for a second. Then she let go.

I ran to my father, clutching his pant leg, breathless.
"She said my name! The baby said my name!"

He shooed me away, told my older sister to take me out. She smiled at me like I was some foolish little boy.
"Yeah, sure," she said.

I cried as she pulled me down the hospital corridor.
"She really did! She wants me! She's scared!"

I broke free and stomped my foot on the floor.
"She said my name! She said, Sa… Sa… Sa!"

My sister sighed, throwing her hands up.
"Okay, okay, you win. She said your name. Now come on, let's go get ice cream."

It was the coldest, sweetest ice cream I've ever had in my life. I remember licking it slowly, watching it melt.

"It's sweet," I said.
"Hmm," she replied.

"Sweet things melt away, right?"

She nodded again. "Yeah. That's why you enjoy them fast. Otherwise, you'll lose them."

I didn't look at her. I just said quietly, "I'm going to play with the baby."

Her whole face changed. She grabbed my hand.
"Stop! Finish your ice cream first!"

"I want to play with her while I can. Otherwise, I'll lose her."

"What?" she said sharply.

"She's sweet. And she smells sweet. And she's cold. Just like this ice cream."

The rest I don't remember clearly. Only that before I could finish my words, something, someone, hit me. Hard. A slap so sharp it threw me off the stairs. I woke up later with my head wrapped in bandages.

My sister was sitting nearby. When I tried to sit up, she rushed to me and said, "You slipped from the stairs."
But I knew she was lying.
I could see it in her eyes.

And in the days that followed, my father's eyes confirmed it, the disgust, the poison in his look. As if I had brought the disease. As if my touch had cursed her.

She lived for only twenty days.

Twenty days!

I remember pumping her tiny chest, no my father didn't he was not at home. And not my mother she was too panicked. Nor my siblings they didn't know what to do. Only I knew by what I had seen in videos the past few days on how to resuscitate a little baby. My hands were shaking, my tears falling on her face. "Christie, don't leave me. Please. Don't leave me alone." It was a name I gave her. It was from the word crystal. Because they never really named her. But I did.

And then her lips turned pale. Cold as she always was, she went colder. Limp and Quiet. And the world fell into that kind of silence that never really ends.

They say people with warm hands are loyal. My hands were always warm.
But if I were loyal, I would have protected her.
I would have protected everything that belonged to her, our parents, our family, myself.

But I couldn't.
I just couldn't.

...................

The screech came again.

No. I didn't eat it. NOOO. Don't think gross things!!! come back to the point!!! ughh... even imagining it this reptile .... ewwwww....

Even with hunger clawing at me for two days, I couldn't eat something so absurd, so wrong. I was terrified of it, terrified that it would eat me instead, thinking I was already lying dead.

So I stood up on the bed, trembling, my body weak but my mind wild with fear. The sound crept closer. I didn't know why I was remembering her now, at the edge of death, but maybe this was it, my turn to melt away too.

It's strange what the mind does when death is near, it loops, rewinds, finds comfort in old wounds. I saw her face again. Her tiny lips trying to say my name. Her cold body and sweet smell, covering my feverish sweaty body in her embrace. it was the kind of cold you feel calm in, the sweetness you cannot get enough of.

Maybe it was her. …

Maybe it was just the hunger.


But I swear I heard it… soft as a sigh…

"Sa…"

And maybe this time, I'll answer her.

Sweet things don't last.
And I was never that sweet to begin with.



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[accuscripter]

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[accuscripter]

When I opened my eyes, I realized I was still sitting in the chair, my head numb on one side from the pressure of the wooden edge, the crumpled paper under my cheek imprinting its texture into my skin.

So, yeah. It dawned on me that I'd fallen asleep. Or maybe just passed out. Maybe both, maybe …. Damn leave it!!! Well, after all it's hard to tell the difference when fear and hunger take turns rocking you to sleep.

For a moment, I thought I'd had a nightmare. But honestly it wasn't exactly that. Not horror, not even suspense, more like a tragic documentary directed by my subconscious in this violating situation. A vivid little proof and, another sad little confirmation of my pathetic state and my abysmal survival skills.

But there was this one good thing though? There was no rat.

Ufff that was a relief …

But that realization came hand in hand with a cruel realization, that I was still starving, totally famished and hungry.

It was clear to me now that I hadn't just fallen asleep from exhaustion. I was not that weak !!! I had actually fell unconscious because of my severe hunger…

Yes, I can easily make it less complicated for you and say that I'd fallen asleep with hunger pangs , but nope, passed out is the better term. "Falling asleep" sounds too cozy, too domestic, too peaceful, like I had the luxury of comfort. But in my humble opinion even saying the words comforting, luxurious, sleeping is a luxury in itself that I hadn't had in a long while… and Passing out from hunger, well now that's a headline, a clear description of my painful survival. And why shouldn't I use this exaggeration??

I couldn't cash in the nosebleed earlier not in school and not even now, but hunger pangs? Those have emotional value. So I want to use it to garner sympathy and kind words for my struggle.

Anyway, exaggeration aside, back to my pain, the only thing that seemed to occupy my head was the fact and the haunting feeling of hunger, starvation and malnourishment. And I swear, my condition demanded, if that rat appeared again, I might not resist the primal human instinct to, feed myself by thick or by thin. Fancy words aside … In short I felt that I will eat that rodent …

Ughhh. Even thinking about it makes me sick. I'm nauseous just imagining it.

Blarrgh….

But you know what… that's the thing about being human: we love to imagine ourselves noble, brave, moral , we make big plans, draw grand maps, talk about courage and endurance, we always do .. but until desperation strips away the poetry and when the real test comes, we crumble over something as basic as food.

While I was busy psychoanalyzing myself and moralizing my desperate thoughts, another growl came from my stomach, loud enough that I had to hold it. My face flushed with embarrassment. I'd never heard such a loud, empty sound come from myself before. Not because I was well-fed all my life , no. I just never paid attention to food.

Honestly, as much as I liked to call myself a "foodie," I was more of a functional eater. Breakfast, then dinner , water and motion in between. It worked. But here, in this little cabin, there wasn't even water to serve the illusion of survival.

People in these kinda situations usually say, Ah, if only I hadn't wasted money. Now I understand the poor. Blah blah … you definitely know what else they say…

But not me. My thought was simpler, dumber:

I should've eaten more when I could.

I should've eaten everything I ever wanted when I could.

And then amidst this regret, I remembered something.

Just a few days ago, my mother was sitting with me. It was one of those family get-togethers, everyone loud, everyone pretending to be real happy. She asked my siblings what they wanted to eat. When it was my turn, I said, "i will eat whatever …"

She looked at me for a while and then said, "I don't even know what your favorite food is!"

And I laughed at this. "Haha. Never mind. I don't know myself , how would you know?"

And that was it.

I didn't get anything to eat that night.

Because my mother , bless her innocent perception , thought my laughter meant I wasn't hungry, and have no urge to eat anything …

Now tell me , a man who last ate at eight in the morning, will he not be hungry again by eight at night?

Of course he will!!!

But that simple analogy must've been too complex for my family's collective intellect. Not even one person pointed that we haven't seen him eat anything … or everyone is eating he should have something as well…nope …nothing …

But then again, I have no complaints. It was my fault, really. I should've said what I wanted. Should've just said anything , junk food, fast food, even leftovers. But no. A little prince like me here thought and expected that they'd understand of course … they'll just know I thought

Ah, the naïveté of human thoughts. The carelessness of a human mind.

……

Grrrrrr…

Another growl snapped me back to the present out of my philosophical nonsense.

"Well," I muttered, "guess I'll have to think of something."

Because if I don't, the rat might start looking like dinner after all.

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[accuscripter]

When I opened my eyes, a fierce, white light assaulted them. It wasn't the dim, yellow gloom of the cabin; this was harsh, clinical brightness, the kind that promises either a new dawn or a surgical procedure. I blinked, my eyelids gritty, and realized I wasn't in my cramped, smelly refuge anymore. The air smelled of antiseptic and something faintly metallic. The rhythmic beep-beep-beep of a machine was the first thing that truly registered.

Yes, you are thinking right, I was in a hospital.

My head was resting on a crisp, smooth pillow; a luxury I hadn't felt in days. I tried to move, but my body protested, every joint aching in dull, residual complaint from the famine and the awkward sleeping position. I was too weak to even lift my arm to confirm the location of my imaginary sword.

A gentle hand pressed onto my shoulder, guiding me back down. "Take it easy, young man. You gave us quite a scare."

I turned my head slowly. Beside the bed sat a woman. Mother? I thought. A sad no in my head and happy yes in my heart. Then looking closely I realized it was another woman. Older, with kind, tired eyes and a face creased by worry lines that seemed to deepen just for my benefit.

"You passed out," she said, her voice soft but firm, like a worn piece of leather. "You've been here for a few hours now. You need to rest."

I wanted to ask about the rat, about the letter, about the growing blotch of ink, but my throat felt like sandpaper. I managed a raspy whisper. "The… the money…"

She chuckled, a dry, rustling sound. "Don't you worry about that now. Just worry about getting some food into you. They put you on a drip. You were severely dehydrated and malnourished, dear."

I nodded weakly, then the moment came, the unavoidable question that cuts through all philosophical nonsense.

"The nurse needs to finalize your admission details," she said, leaning in slightly. "They need a name."

The word hit me like a splash of cold water. Name. My name.

I hesitated. Which name? Sam, the person they knew, the runaway, the good-for-nothing fool who had abandoned his family? Or Kai, the warrior, the ocean, the one who wasn't supposed to exist until he had truly earned his victory? I had told myself Sam was dead. But Kai was an abstract, an aspiration. He had no legal papers, no medical history, no insurance to cover this sterile, life-saving bed.

A familiar tornado of overthinking began to spiral in my chest. What if I died here?

How would they tell my family? A quick phone call? "We found a man named Sam, or maybe Kai, who was clearly too arrogant to feed himself, and he's now a hospital expense. Come claim the body and pay the bill."

Should they even know that I was dead? Was my death less of a burden to them than my life? If I was just Sam, the runaway, maybe they'd be relieved. The mystery solved, the problem contained. A moment of mourning, perhaps, but then a slow, gentle erasure. But if I kept the name Kai; if I died as a nameless, starving stranger; at least they wouldn't have the final, devastating paperwork of my failure.

But then, the practicality, the absolute mundane cruelty of being alive, kicked in. Insurance. Who would pay these exorbitant hospital dues? The thought was enough to make my stomach, already empty, clench with a new kind of panic. A mountain of debt was a far worse legacy than a blotted letter. I had to be Sam for the sake of the bill, but Sam was a name I hated, a life I had rejected. I was Sam, the financial commodity; I was Kai, the starving idealist.

I was still wrestling with this bizarre, life-or-death clerical error when the old lady took my hand.

"Don't you worry, child," she said, a warm, reassuring squeeze. "You looked too familiar, too clean for a vagrant, and too panicked for a local. I couldn't just leave you there to die, and I knew you wouldn't want your real people involved if you were so bent on running away."

She paused, her eyes searching mine with a look that bypassed judgment and went straight to empathy.

"I told them you are my nephew from the city. I said you'd just come into town, and you'd forgotten your wallet and ID. Is that alright?"

I let out a slow, shaky breath. A new name. A temporary identity. The Nephew from the City. Someone who had an aunt who cared, who had a life waiting for him, who wasn't a runaway or a ghost. It was a perfect, protective, little lie.

"Thank you," I managed, the two words feeling heavier than any lie I'd ever told myself. Though I wanted to ask her how she knew I was a runaway, a coward who tried to escape his life. But I stayed put for now.

I had been Sam, and then I was Kai, and now, for the price of a hospital bed and a drip, I was simply The Nephew. And for the first time since leaving home, I felt a flicker of the one thing I hadn't been able to write in my letter: safe.



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[accuscripter]

I offered the old lady, a tired yet genuine smile. She was the mother of the owner of the cabin I was living in and was actually there to see him and by luck as she called it, found me on, barely on the verge of dying.

"I am Sam. Sam Colin," I said, letting the rejected name fall from my lips. "I have health insurance. You don't have to take this burden for me."

The irony wasn't lost on me. I'd run away to shed Sam, only to be saved by the very system I belonged to. First, an invisible presence in my own home, unseen and unheard, and now, a fake identity in the outside world, a ghost only made real by a policy number. It was exhausting literally.

The lady, bless her heart, simply nodded, relief washing over her face, though she was trying her best to hide it. "Sam Colin," she repeated softly, as if memorizing the name of her lost-and-found nephew. "Good. You rest now, Sam."

It seemed as if she was saying, you rest now, sam! Rest as much as you want... your insurance is covering it!"

…………………….

A day later, pumped full of IV fluids and a bland, life-saving hospital meal, I was discharged. The walk back to the cabin felt less like a frantic escape and more like a gentle return to purgatory.

Stepping inside, the space hit me immediately. Fueled with new energy, the cabin seemed even smaller now. A few days ago, it had felt cozy, a protective shell; now, it felt like a cheap box that contained my failure. The walls seemed to press in, the dirty window mocking me with its meager offering of light.

"I think I should go back," I said out loud.

The sound of my voice in the confined space was the final push. Without another thought, I started packing my stuff. The clothes, the file with the new-name dreams, the crumpled, blotted letter; it all went back into the suitcase. The energy from the hospital, the energy of a temporarily well Sam Colin, demanded action.

As I snapped the suitcase shut, the inevitable storm of internal questions began to brew, a familiar tempest of fear and narcissism.

How will they welcome me? With silence? With open arms? With an invoice for my life? What will they say? "Where have you been, you fool?" or, "We hardly noticed you were gone"? Will they be happy? Will they be sad? Maybe not happy, but perhaps not sad either. Maybe they will just give a neutral, flat reaction; that would hurt the most. Then I shake my head and started considering the worst. Will they scold me? Hit me? Honestly, even that felt less terrifying than the crushing weight of indifference.

Will they kick me out? Will they? Well, that is also agreeable. After all, then it will be on their own accord, not mine! I will not be the one to be blamed then, right? I could finally be the victim, the rejected one, instead of the cowardly runaway. The justifications spun faster.

Why was I even packing? I stopped and sat on the floor, where I was packing my suitcase.

Because I have used my insurance! If they had filed a missing person's report, it would be a matter of time before they'd find me through the hospital records. The financial trail of Sam Colin would lead them straight to The Nephew from the City. So, I'd rather get back on my own terms. But I am an adult! Who can they file for my absence? Still, who knows, they might have put the blame of stealing on me just to find me? Will they be so desperate to find me? Really?

I snapped.

Aren't I thinking too much? Aren't I wasting too much time?

A tremor ran through me. Do I really want to go back home? Am I sure?

No. I wasn't sure. I was tired. I was scared. I was hungry again; not for food, but for the answer to the first question I'd ever asked myself when I started writing: To whom am I even writing?

Damn!!! I said again jerking my head. Making faces I did my best to stop thinking and closed me suitcase.

I am coming.


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[accuscripter]

The cab ride felt like the shortest journey of my life. I sat rigid, cramping into myself, the suitcase jammed between my knees, listening to the driver's tinny radio and watching the landscape shift from anonymous city sprawl back to the suffocating familiarity of my neighborhood.

I had envisioned this return; if I ever made it, as a heroic, or at least dramatically defiant, moment. I imagined slamming the suitcase down, perhaps a tense confrontation, or maybe even a chase scene ending in a reluctant reunion.

What I got was traffic, a grumpy driver demanding a specific fare, and a mild drizzle. The drama was all mine, contained entirely within the cheap polyester lining of my jacket. And all this while I was scared of what was about to happen.

I paid the driver and stood on the familiar pavement. The house; yeah The House; it was exactly as I had left it. Of course, there was No police car. No reporters. No yellow tape. No frantic neighbors organizing a search party. You might be thinking what absurdity I was even thinking, but you understand it better than anyone that when you do something off and different, you think of everything that might happen. I even thought that maybe the police had brought a burned or drowned body; both, of course, unrecognizable; and my family thought it was me and had already conducted my funeral.

Yes, that was the extent of my thought. To add to it, I even imagined that, just like in the dramas, I was coming to my own funeral today. That would be shocking, right? A dead man coming to life; what would people think? What would my family think? The police would be blamed, of course; it would be so embarrassing for them. They would even end up hating me, I think. After all, me coming back to the house without any thinking, just instinctively coming home, seemed to be like a pulling fate, letting me see my funeral or someone else's.

Don't think of me as an apath. You know in such situations, houses are usually turned upside down: some die, some get into accidents, some get divorced, some remarry, or some win the lottery, leave the house, and go abroad to live in a foreign, beautiful state. And what else... hmmm... yes, the funeral. And mine, more specifically. Instead, the house screamed routine, mocking the high-stakes, life-or-death drama I had been living for the past two weeks. The grass needed cutting, and my father's car was parked in its usual, slightly crooked spot. The whole scene screamed routine, mocking the high-stakes, life-or-death drama I had been living for the past two weeks.

So when I saw the house, it was strange, it felt usual. Even I myself felt as if I had just gone for a little walk. The grass needed cutting, and my father's car was parked in its usual, slightly crooked spot. The whole scene screamed routine, mocking the high-stakes, life-or-death drama I had been living for the past two weeks.

My internal monologue, the monstrous tornado I could never seem to escape, started up again. See? You weren't a priority. You weren't missed. Your disappearance was absorbed into the white noise of their lives like a single drop of rain in a storm drain.

But then another voice came. Its not possible for them to not know that you were not at home. You were not at hme for no less than 2 weeks! 2 weeks! It's a time.

I dragged the heavy suitcase up the porch steps. The weight was ridiculous. It held so little, yet it felt heavy with the condensed mass of my overthinking, my failed attempt at freedom, and the ghost of Kai. I reached for the spare key hidden under the stone frog. It was still there. Of course it was. My hand was shaking as I inserted the key and turned the tumblers. The lock clicked, a loud, decisive sound that felt louder than a gunshot in the silent afternoon. I held my breath, pushing the door open just wide enough to slip through.

The air inside was warm and smelled strongly of home; someone was definitely cooking. I moved quietly, slipping the suitcase behind the large coat rack in the entrance hall. The first real hurdle wasn't confrontation; it was getting my bag past the hall and into my room without making a sound. The first one to see me would define the narrative. If it was my father's second wife, the 'step' lady, I'd have to perform the awkward dance of explanation. If it was my mother, I braced myself for the silent, disappointed stare.

I crept toward the living room archway.

And then, I stopped.

The living room was full. Not in a frantic, searching-for-me way, but in the most mundane, anticlimactic way possible.

My father was stretched out on his armchair, half-asleep, the newspaper tented over his face. My two sisters were on the sofa, doing something; one humming tunelessly, the other tapping a pen against her teeth. Their little children playing in their feet. My mother was sitting near them, knitting, occasionally glancing up at the television. The television was on, displaying a loud, brightly colored reality show.

My gaze snapped to the wall calendar. It was exactly two weeks after I left. I stood in the doorway, the shadow of the coat rack falling across my face, having returned from a dangerous, starving, identity-shattering journey, and they were simply… living.

My dramatic, internal tyrant, the jester in my own circus, wanted to yell, to smash something, to demand an explanation for their negligence. But the voice that came out was small and raspy, a leftover from my hospital dehydration.

"I'm home."

No one moved. The humming continued. The reality TV host shrieked a high-pitched announcement. My father's foot twitched under the newspaper.

I cleared my throat, louder this time. "I said, I'm back."

My older sister, Jane, the one who bought me the cold ice cream, long time ago, finally looked up. She didn't drop her pen. She didn't gasp. She looked at me, frowned faintly, then tilted her head toward the sofa, her expression one of mild annoyance.

"Good noon Sleeping Prince. Mom said not to disturb your sleep, that's why we didn't wake you up."




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[accuscripter]

"Good Noon, Sleeping Prince. Mom said not to disturb your sleep, that's why we didn't wake you up."

"Wake you up!"

"Wake me up?"

The sentence hung in the air, sweet and toxic, far more damaging than silence or anger could ever be. Jane didn't wait for a reply; she just went back to tapping her pen.

I stared at her, the blood draining from my face. Two weeks. Two weeks of starvation, passing out, changing my name, running from imagination, from disgusting rodents, and almost dying in a cabin, only for my family to have seamlessly replaced my physical absence with a fictional presence. They hadn't noticed I was gone; they had simply decided I was busy, doing something and asleep. A sweet word is sleep, isn't it? You sleep with all the worries in the world at a bay, off to the lands of dream on the edge of reality and forget everything painful.

Do you think I might have been able to sleep with all my situation? My escape, my desperate, life-altering act of self-assertion, was reduced to me taking a long, inconvenient nap. Inshort, my disappearance had been so insignificant they didn't even bother to question it.

The emptiness of the moment was a pain deeper than the starvation I'd endured. I stood paralyzed in the lounge, a pathetic, returned fugitive, absorbing the knowledge that I had been less important than a routine excuse. The house was humming with life, but it was a life that hadn't paused, hadn't stuttered. They hadn't looked up because they believed the lie they told themselves: that the invisible man was just being his usual, sequestered self, safely tucked away in his room.

I felt the familiar weight of being unseen, of being less than a shadow, settling back onto my shoulders.

But then, my moment of quiet, defeated contemplation was violently interrupted.

Suddenly, a shadow detached itself from the newspaper-tented armchair. My father was no longer half-asleep. Before my brain could even process the movement; the speed of it was shocking; a sharp sting erupted across my left cheek.

My head snapped sideways. The sound of the slap, a sickening crack, cut through the reality show's noise and brought me back to my senses. The pain was immediate, a shocking, searing heat that brought instant, involuntary tears to my eyes. My mother dropped her knitting; my sisters froze, their children startled. Finally, finally, I had their attention.

And in that instant of confusion, pain, and searing embarrassment; with my whole family staring; a foolish, irrational thought bloomed in my chest. A desperate, hopeful wish that was almost a prayer.

He knew. He knew I had run away! He was scared for me! He missed me. This is the pain of fear, the relief of finding me. I mattered.

The tear that managed to escape, hot and clumsy, was not from the physical blow, but from the pathetic, needy joy of being seen after two weeks of being a ghost. Even this pain, this humiliation, felt like a form of love, a violent confirmation of my existence.

But my dream, my pathetic wish, shattered to pieces just as quickly as it had formed. My father's face was contorted, not with relief or worry, but with a familiar, self-absorbed frustration. He jabbed a rigid finger into my chest, sending me stumbling a step back toward the coat rack.

My father's face wasn't worried. It wasn't relieved e ither. It was twisted with irritation, ego, and wounded pride.

"I have been calling you for a while now!" he thundered. "Do you have no importance for me? Don't you hear? Am I invisible? Are you doing drugs? You slept like a dead man!"

The world tilted before my eyes and felt like falling.

He wasn't angry that I'd been gone for two weeks, nor was he worried. Funny that he didn't even know I was gone. He was furious because I didn't answer him. For two weeks, I had failed to appear when summoned, whether by him knocking on the bedroom door, or calling my phone. I had merely returned at the precise moment he had decided he needed something from the person he assumed was still inhabiting my body; a person who was now making him feel ignored.

I was angry that he was angry that the so known imaginary version of me; the one they assumed was still upstairs "sleeping"; had ignored his calls. My absence had embarrassed him, not concerned him.

And the irony? The sting, the cruel punchline?

Am I invisible?

He asked the question I'd swallowed for years. The question I had been screaming in my head, into my hunger, into my freedom. And hearing him claim it, my pain, my word, was more humiliating than the slap.

I stood there, Sam Colin, my cheek throbbing, my tears hot with fresh humiliation. I knew the truth now. My two weeks of exile, my starvation, the hospital, the new name, the rat, the sword in my chest; it had all been about nothing. I was home, and the world was exactly the same, only now I had a swollen cheek and the final, crushing certainty: the problem wasn't that I was invisible to them; the problem was that they were the ones fighting for visibility. And I had just been smacked for being in the way of their spotlight.

The tears flowed freely now. Not from the blow. But from his question, about himself, that was Am I invisible? I wanted to cry and shout and wail.

AM I INVISIBLE?? AM I?? YOU ALL DON'T SEE ME? YOU DON'T KNOW I WASN'T HOME FOR WEEKS?

WAKE UP? SLEEP? DO YOU THINK I HAVE THE LIBERTY TO ENJOY THESE HUMAN NEEDS?

WHY DID YOU HAVE ME? WHY? WHY? WHY? ANSWER ME?

I wanted to beat my head, pull my hair, shout, break my lungs with loud cries. But I started laughing.

It started small, a broken, gurgling sound in my throat, which quickly escalated into a high-pitched, hysterical fit. Everyone went numb. My father raised another hand to hit me. That I don't know how but I pushed it away while laughing. Tears were coming out of my eyes, unstoppable, mingling with the laughter, making the scene truly grotesque even in my own eyes.

I simply turned and started to go upstairs to my room. My father shouting behind me, calling me back. My mother tried to run after him but my sister stopped her.

"Let him. Boys his age often throw tantrums. Let him. He will be good by himself."

And finally, as I went inside my room, I saw it dull and dusted. I sat by the door, crying desperately.

One thing was sure… I didn't matter to anyone. The letter was for me. A justification and a souvenir of my failed freedom.

It was my worst imagination realized. The one thing I was the most sad to think of. It was impossible; how could it be… how can one not know the absence of a person for weeks and feign ignorance?

It was killing me that I had run away and no one even knew.

And then my tears ran dry and I fell asleep on the floor, I don't know how, I could see everything but I couldn't move at all…and then it all blacked out and my eyes closed…

That was the last time I slept … the kind that goes beyond the premises of days and nights. I continued to sleep a long long long sleep, in a very very very long time afterall.


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[accuscripter]

as you all know, I RAN AWAY AND NO ONE EVEN KNEW has come to an end, though i am not sure if you liked it or not, bcz you guys dont tell me, anyways...so i am a little confused and want your help... i will do what you people will say.

a- add chapter 14
b- no need to add chapter 14