My Runaway

"What courage it takes to be honest and vulnerable, to be openly yourself...to be human and fallible and competent, brave and fearful together. I realised it was not 'either-or' - I could be both."


I was seven years old the first time I attempted suicide. After such a long drum roll, the cymbol crash was sudden and marked the end of something in the brief eruption of it. But maybe I'm a pessimist, and it merely struck the first note of a drum solo so spectacular, rhythmic and beautiful.

The second time wasn't planned. I had looked in to his eyes and seen the hate that lived inside of him. I'd known him longer than my years, before the constraints of time and space, and will do long after we are done here. There's no hello and no goodbye, we step out in to the future. Our bodies are made of human clay, but our mind collective is far greater.

A few years had passed and the life I had salvaged was drab and meaningless. I wanted to run, scream, cry. I felt completely alienated from the world and everyone in it, like they knew something I didn't. And I knew something I wasn't supposed to. Inside all of us there is a restlessness, a sense that things should be different somehow. This feeling will not go away, nor will it ever be satisfied. There is just the trying, then after that, the trying again.



The coach drove away, taking with it my warmth, my security, and my pink glitter pen. Damn. I was standing at the side of the road, just me and my backpack, my fingers slowly turning into ice pops and midnight fast approaching. I couldn't decide which way to go, so drew strength and advice from the most sensible of sources. The Pet Shop Boys. I'd 'Go West'. Apparently it's peaceful there, and the skies are blue. I reached in to my pocket for my compass, which I'd got free in a box of Coco Pops and found West to be a wheelie bin on the other side of the road, and beyond that a large field with definite animal movement. Maybe not. An orange car passed me so I decided I'd simply head in the direction it was going, as orange cars are cool.

My only plan for tonight was to find somewhere to sleep. I had attempted sleep on the coach, but the man sitting next to me had decided on a lengthy getting to know you session instead. I found out that his teeth were not his own, his brother was not, and never would be, marriage material, and he'd never once bought himself socks. (Unless you count that time in '92 when he thought he was buying gloves, but they turned out to be socks, and he consequently took them back for a refund). He found out my name was Sam.

After walking for about forty minutes, I came to the conclusion that my orange-car-plan probably had its faults, as there seemed to be nothing ahead of me other than big bundles of hay. So I decided to stop, rest, and eat some strawberry laces. Always a good plan. After getting a buzz of sugar and tying my sleeping bag to my head (I looked ridiculous but it had now started to rain and I had a severe lack of hood, or umbrella), I turned around and headed back in the direction I had come.

After nearly an hour of concerned looks by drivers, and slowly starting to resemble something of a hunchback, with a sleeping bag attached to their head, I came across probably one of the most unwelcoming bed and breakfasts I had ever seen: NO ANIMALS. NO HEN OR STAG PARTIES. NOBODY UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF DRUGS, ALCOHOL, OR ANY OTHER MIND-ALTERING SUBSTANCES. NO SUNGLASSES. NO MUDDY BOOTS. NO LARGE BAGS. After much deliberation, I decided that I probably didn't fulfill their criteria. My boots were caked in mud from an unfortunate incident with a puddle/lake, my bag was, if my nearly broken back was anything to go by, pretty bloody large, and I didn't look particularly mentally fit. So I carried on, and found myself spoilt for choice by no less than thirty bed and breakfasts, all along the same street. No vacacies. No vacancies. No vacancies.

Finally, right at the end of the street, before it turned back into a vast nothingness, I saw the most beautiful word: Vacancies! And the rules were a little more feasible too: no dogs. In polite, small characters. I walked into the lobby area and immediately felt like a complete twit. It appeared to be a very classy place, there was a man sat by a log fire, reading The Times, smoking what appeared to be one of the logs, but that I decided was probably just a very large cigar, and there were chandeleirs.

"Can I help you...dear?" said a kindly old man, who admittedly had to pause to distinguish my sex, but nevertheless, had a very kind face.

"Erm yes, please. I need somewhere to stay tonight" I said, "I'm sorry it's so late, I don't really know where I am."

"You're in Cumbria," said the man, with the tone of a psychiatrist about him. "And now you're in a hotel" he added, quite unnecessarily.

"Oh right, thanks" I said, deciding that I really couldn't pull off being sane at this point. "Do you have a spare room please?"

"Let's see," he said, and I waited patiently whist he looked upwards and appeared to be consulting the lightbulb. "Yes, we do have a spare room. The tariff is 55 pounds."

A few moments later and I was heading back to the coach stop. I didn't smoke log pipes, or wear bow ties, I just wanted a cup of tea, the chance to use my Fruitylicious shower gel, and a sleep. I knew that some youth hostels only charge about 7 pounds a night, this meant that 55 pounds could last me one whole week in a youth hostel, or one night in a place where everyone had a moustache, including the ladies. So this is how I ended up spending my first night in Cumbria sat at a coach stop, collecting Pokemon on my Gameboy. As soon as it got light, I would set about finding a youth hostel.