He looked down.

At blood that soaked the front of his wife-beater, none of it his own –

At the woman lying on the ground before him, moaning –

At the blood on her face that was her own –

There was only one thing to do – the only thing he knew how to do –

He ran.

Crying in rage, he ran.

She screamed after him to stop; he paid no attention.

-----

“Yes, I did run away from home.”

The woman in front of him stared down in pity. “Y’shouldn’t sleep in the park. Get raped, or a cold, or somethin’.”

He just laughed, laughed heartily at this girl dressed in fishnet stockings and a bedraggled miniskirt of indistinguishable color that was dotted with equally indistinguishable stains. He laughed and laughed and laughed, laughed merrily at the matted blonde hair that fell in greased locks like snakes around her face, at the purse that was strapless due to hostility of time rather than style. And then he cried.

“Don’t cry, kid.”

“Aw, hell, don’t cry.”

“C’mon, kid – here.” She had offered him a crumpled tissue from the depths of that purse. “Don’t cry.”

“Thanks,” he whispered with another chuckle, using the tattered sleeves of his shirt to dab the tears from his face in lieu of the offered tissue, which looked used anyway.

“So, how long y’been out here?” she asked, taking a seat next to him on the bench.

“Week, or so.”

“Got a job or anythin’?”

“Nope.”

They were silent for a moment, in which he stared at a sparrow, burrowing into its nest in preparation for the cold front that was supposed to come in that night (according to the weather man on a TV in the front window of a shop, of course). He had never held much faith in weather men.

“Why’d y’run?”

He froze.

“Y’know, away from home. Why’d y’run? Family bad, or somethin’?”

“Where y’goin’?”

“Hey – kid, c’mon, I didn’t mean nothin’ –”

But he was already gone, gasping for breath after frozen breath, rounding a corner as snow began to fall.

-----

It started early, he pondered thoughtfully.

He had run from the school bus, from his babysitters, from treacherous non-friends, especially from his parents, and now he was finally free of them.

Except

For

These

Damned

Control-freaks who acted concerned about him.

He sat on a park bench once again, listening to the commotion of the city.

Hustle, bustle, control your lives, but know you’re not the ones in control, he thought with a smile, a sad smile, one of nostalgia and regret–

But not of loneliness.

Never were his smiles sad for loneliness.

-----

(“I’m tired of you and your shit. Just get the fuck out, Malcolm!”)

He twitched.

(“Where the hell are you?”)

Cowering at the end of the bench like he was in his memory, he whimpered.

(“Get over here – get the fuck over here! I’ll show you, y’ungrateful little fuck!”)

Mommy and her drunken rages playing around in circles of animosity in his mind. Sometimes, he could still hear her, howling her anger in the wind and trying desperately to take her own mind off of her problems with him, with the–

“Goddamnit!” he cried, kicking out at the air. He took the last drink of tequila left in a bottle he had swiped from a bum and threw the bottle in front of him, laughing in delight when it shattered into thousands of pieces.

Just like Mommy’s life without Malcolm–

Just like Mommy–

A giggle.

Just like Malcolm.

He hiccupped.

Just like him.

Shattered.

-----

He stumbled around the park in a rather drunken stupor, paying no mind to passersby that may have had the misfortune to run into him. The lights around him blurred, and Mommy’s voice in his head sounded delightfully amusing. There was some sort of festival in the park – some sort of Christmas celebration – there were a lot of people around him. Someone running down the path ran straight into him, and they both tumbled to the ground. He giggled again as his unknown assailant stood and spat on him. “Watch where you’re going, y’worthless piece of shit.” When he sat up, the runner was gone, and the words stuck like barbs under his skin. Mommy used to say that, sometimes.

“Fuck.” A wave of nausea passed over him, and he rolled off the path to empty his stomach of the poison of alcohol. Then he ran from reality into the darkness of sleep, passing out in the park on the night of the joyous Christmas celebration.

-----

A sharp pain in his side.

Jab. Jab.

Poke, prod. Jab.

“Stop, Mommy,” he muttered.

“Hey, mister.” Jab. “Why you sleepin’ in th’park, mister?” Poke. Poke. “Wake up, mister. Hey.”

He swung out at the kid that was poking him with a stick, who dodged with a gleeful laugh.

The kid kept prodding him.

Slowly, he returned to consciousness, and he hissed at the sudden appearance of the sun.

“Fuck off.”

Poke. Prod, jab, poke.

“Fuck off, kid!”

Jab.

“I fuckin’ said, fuck off!” His hand came in contact with the kid’s face.

The kid started crying and ran away, screaming for his own mother.

This was not a good place for him to stay.

He stood with a muffled groan and tried to shake off his pounding headache. He shoved the nausea back down, clutched his hair, and began to run again.

Breathing heavily, he trotted down the park’s path.

Just run away, he told himself. You’ll be safer that way.

Not happier, never happier, but safer.

-----

There were no happy endings. As he peered through a frosted window into a family’s cheery Christmas Eve, he realized that they were deluded. And he turned away, sadly contemplating their plight.

Better to leave the misled to their imaginings.

For once, it wasn’t odd for him to be out in the cold tonight. Dozens of people were strolling, admiring their neighbors’ lights and festive decorations. They were all so…happy. Glowing. Positively radiant with season spirits.

A wave of claustrophobia caught him, although there were no walls surrounding him. He needed to run, and right then, not later.

So he did. He ran, because he was good at that.

In another alley, on the far side of town, he stopped. A streetlight flickered. The smell of discarded decay invaded his nostrils. He leaned down, elbows on his knees, to catch his breath, and heard a grating voice.

“Get outta my house.”

And so he did.

-----

Up the street, there was a fight in progress. It took a few moments for him to register the banging sounds as gunshots, and by then he was in the middle of it. Where before he had been unable to stop, he now stood rooted to the ground.

A bullet caught his shoulder, and another buried itself in the left side of his ribcage. He felt an odd sensation like a deflating balloon and tried to draw a mouthful of air when another projectile slammed into his back. He slumped to the ground.

-----

He looked down.

At blood that soaked the front of his jacket, this time all of it his own –

At the flickering streetlight, the car beside which he had fallen –

At the blood on his hands that was his own –

There was only one thing to do – the only thing he knew how to do –

He ran.

Crying in rage, he had run for so long.

With no one to scream after him to stop, he slipped into darkness and paid no attention.