Some might call me misled. I guess they’re probably right in saying that – at least by society’s common morals. But such is the price of being . . . individualistic. When I follow rules something in me screams objections, so I disregard them. Ever since I was able to see through my parents’ lies, I have run rampant through the less-trodden path.

I guess it’s no wonder I ended up here. Ended up running away.

Not just from home, though. From my past. From the future it would have lent me. I have other plans than what was handed to me. This isn’t to say that I’m afraid of facing my own actions; but I can’t deal with the thought of being permanently confined, of the hatred and the blame that would come with I’ve done.

Besides, I’m not really leaving anything but bodies.

But they’re only shells, aren’t they? What does my mother’s corpse say about her steely heart? What do my father’s cold and callused hands say about the blows he had dealt to those who trusted him? The truth cannot be fully revealed in after-the-fact examination in my opinion. If you choose to judge me for freeing myself, do so. As long as you know that I don’t care. Know that the patronizing, shaming words of others cannot and will not break this shell. I am invincible.

I’ve always had to be, with my family. You can’t let bruises show where others can see.

I’ve learned to let things just glide right off and to live in the next moment. Nothing can touch me when I consume myself in possibility and experience. Nothing can touch me right now, with a motorcycle engine thrumming under my palms and my legs. When I lean into curves and my knee misses the road by an inch, I can imagine the invisible armor I’ve always worn grinding away on the pavement. When the wind pulls and touches the skin of my face, I can feel the bruises of 16 years fading away. When my hair flies freely, I forget the feeling of angry fingers pulling it to take me somewhere awful. By living what is happening, I forget was has happened. But when I lick my wind-burned lips, I don’t have to imagine the taste of blood. It still lingers there, taunting me.

Oh, the mistakes I have made.

Is it best not to ask? Every time I recall last night, I feel an emptiness. It’s the sort of hole that forms every time you think about an uncertain future or notice that you’re not exactly who you thought you were. There’s only one thing that I care to realize, if only because of it’s nagging.

The bitter blood of bitter people is unsatisfying. It’s unfulfilling.

So I need a fix. I need something better than blackened souls and hopeless hearts. I need MORE. I want blood redder than the sunset that’s chasing me. I want something to feed my new compulsion – literally. Just listen to me. I sound like a junkie. Only one hit and I’m already addicted to something sweeter than sugar, bitter as salt, darker than wine, and more dangerous than any illegal drug you can think of.