Photo by Krzysztof Hepner on Unsplash
Being fourteen is balancing on a bridge in the middle of the night and wondering if staying would bring just as much pain as going. You’ve already run away from home, hopped the brick wall out of the backyard and into the street, pounded the pavement in your white Authentic Vans and sweet little crop top, a half-broken iPhone stuck in your back pocket—the house key clutched between your sweaty knuckles like that’s what’ll protect you if someone decides you’re sweet. You’re out like you wanted. And you think it could turn into chaos in a second despite the fact it’s dead out here, summer crickets and air con drone, suburban landscape—you silly goose, don’t unravel now; but oh, here comes the urge, the longing to either call or confront your friend and ask them to run away with you. As if the tension of the house last Thursday could be forgotten, how it had been you and them and the dog, top 40 in the background, ten pages of a tabloid rag being crinkled beneath your knee. Their face so close to yours it drowned out the raised voices and scraping chairs roaring down in the kitchen. You can’t stand the silence. You cook up this entire fantasy of them saying yes, of really doing this and gathering up the cash and stuffing your school bags with clothes, underwear, toothbrush and simply walking out of frame because you’re tired of existing in these settings, and maybe leaving will just let those who matter hear. You teeter on the edge of having power if not for the destruction if you reach for it. You think it could be okay for a while leaning on another warm body, and you’ll live on pie and coffee and Sunchips, and sacrifice everything to get on a Greyhound. But a car drives by thumping bass and wraps you in a cloak of cold sweat. It sends you scrambling into a pokey bush—you’re so alert and your stomach is a pit and nothing outside is soft or safe. You grip your phone as the battery drains just from being on and admit your shame: the creature comforts will always call you to obey. You’ll turn back and go home, using all the strength you’ve got to clamber back over the brick wall. Sore hands. You’ll lock the back door as soon as your feet meet the carpet.
Jenny M. Liu (jennymliu.carrd.co) is most often just a person in soft, loose clothing. Her work has appeared in Full Mood Mag, Waxwing, miniskirt magazine, JAKE, The Aurora Journal, and the anthology 99 Tiny Terrors. She is on Bluesky, Twitter, and Instagram, all @jennymliu.
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