When I was a kid, I decided to run away from home.
Like many childish decisions, it stemmed from a whim. My parents had gone through argument after argument before finally agreeing to divorce. After that, my mom had to work long hours to support us both on her own. Frustrated and lonely, I walked out the door with nothing but the clothes on my back.
An entire day wandering aimlessly passed by in the blink of an eye. It was only when the sun started setting, and shadows grew longer and more warped, did I realize that nothing around me looked familiar. Even worse, I was cold, hungry and worn out from my stray travels. Chest heaving, I felt my panic building up as tears welled up in my eyes.
Then, I saw him.
Sitting on a park bench illuminated by a street lamp that had just flashed on, he couldn’t have been older than me. He was waifish, dressed in dark colours, while a black duffel bag nestled at his feet.
Feeling an odd sense of kinship, I sniffled as I called out, “Did… Did you run away, too?”
Met with silence, I figured that he must not have heard me, so I walked towards him.
My first thought upon getting a closer look was that he was angry— and that he had been crying. His pale face was fixed in a firm scowl, while matted strands of hair like a dog’s fell over his bloodshot eyes.
Glancing at the duffel bag that looked battered and old, I couldn’t help but feel bad for him. Yes, I ran away, but I knew that my mom would find me in the end. It wasn’t like I would be gone forever.
But this little boy looked like he planned to leave permanently, and has been lost for a long time since then.
“Um…” I murmured in an attempt to start a conversation as I sat next to him, “So how long have you been out here?”
Not replying, he moved his hands to clutch the handles of the duffle bag. Tightly.
Seeing his apparent defensiveness, I continued, “I won’t take your bag or anything… We can just be friends, you know?”
He jerked his head towards me, making me nearly jumped out of my seat. A scowl was still etched on his gaunt face, and he gazed at me as if he was trying to pierce holes through my soul.
Feeling uncomfortable, I shifted around my seat and wrung my hands. But I didn’t leave. Instead, I continued to talk to my silent companion. I told him about my family, about how mom and dad used to bring me to the park to feed the ducks, about how we used to visit Grandma’s and bake cookies, about how we used to have board game and movie nights together— About how we used to be happy.
Without realising, I had already turned into a blubbering, crying mess. I was quickly snapped out of my ramblings when the boy suddenly stood up. His eyes were sweeping from left to right, as if he was scanning for something inside the darkness. Before I could ask him what was wrong, one of his hands had latched onto my wrists.
“What are you doing?” I shouted, trying withdraw my hand. But his grip was tight— Tight enough that his nails drew blood. Despite my protests, he yanked me off the bench and started to run.
I have no idea how long it went on, with him dragging me by my bleeding and bruised wrist, as I struggled to keep up and pull away.
I managed to break free when we were on a sidewalk. I punched the boy in the face and he crumpled to the ground. “Go away,” I shrieked, “I don’t want to be friends with you anymore!”
I’ll never forget the expression he gave me before I ran away, but I could never quite pinpoint what it was.
Was it sadness? Pleading? Longing?
I was eventually found by a lady who walked me to a police station coincidentally nearby. Within an hour, my mom had arrived to pick me up. She was sobbing and shaking as she hugged me, telling me to never run away again.
I didn’t understand what got her so worked up until I saw the news. A escaped convict had been on the run while I was out there, and police had found him near the park I was in.
I was told that I was lucky, but there’s one detail of the case that will always haunt me—
His last victim was a boy my age whose remains were stuffed into a black duffel bag.