Charolette and Wilbur

I ran away once. I wasn't very old, but I knew I didn't want to be around anymore. There was just too much stuff for anyone to handle. Too much hatred, anger, resentment, abuse... you know, the stuff that breeds psychopaths and serial whatevers. I felt old, broken and tired; more worn than my not even double digits should have felt.

The sky was clear, no clouds clung to the baby blue horizon. Birds were singing as they scoured for food or clippings for the new nests to prepare for the upcoming hatchlings. My Grandmother had just finished berating me for something I didn't do right. What better way to start the day? I was sent to my room to "think about what I had done", or not done in this case. I threw myself onto my bed as I cried, although I'm surprised I had any tears left and, just to spite her, I didn't think about what I had done, hadn't done or wouldn't do.

Leave. Throw everything you have in a bag and leave. You have money. You don't need HER. You can survive out there in the big open world. If you can survive this, you can survive anything. I looked up, expecting to see my guardian angel or someone standing in the doorway, but there was no one there. Just my large duffel bag in the corner, beckoning me to fill it full of my belongings.

To this day, I don't know exactly what drove me to do it. I grabbed blindly around my room at whatever touched my fingertips, no planning went into what was thrown into the bag. Except for one thing. I had to have my copy of Charolette's Web. I wouldn't go anywhere without it. I ran down the stairs while SHE was gone; she had left the house shortly after sending me to my room, grabbed the cash I had saved from my $20/week allowance and ran. I ran so hard that my lungs felt as if they were on fire. I didn't even know where I was going, I just had to leave. Me and Charolette and Wilbur.

I stopped at the park 2 miles away and sat on the hard bench, the breeze from the river drying the beads of sweat on my face, pushing the hair out of my tear filled eyes. It was early summer, but there were no kids at the park. Laughter and screams of joy didn't flow from the monkey bars and slide. Parents urging their children along didn't fill my heart. I felt alone and small, insignificant, as if it wouldn't matter if I got kidnapped and killed.

Wind rustled the pages of my thoroughly read book and the smell of the pages filled my nose. I love the smell of books. There's something nostalgic about it, I can't put my finger on it. My fingers moved along the edge of the pages, feeling every bend and break. Wilbur smiled up at me as I turned my gaze from the free flowing water down to the heavy bag sitting next to me. I held the open book to my face and took a deep breath, the almost mildew smell filled my lungs and I could have died a happy little girl.

"What do you mean less than nothing? I don't think there is any such thing as less than nothing. Nothing is absolutely the limit of nothingness. It's the lowest you can go. It's the end of the line. How can something be less than nothing? If there were something that was less than nothing, then nothing would not be nothing, it would be something - even though it's just a very little bit of something. But if nothing is nothing, then nothing has nothing that is less than it is."

I dried the tears from my sticky face and swallowed hard. I was something, and nothing anyone said or did would make me think otherwise. I held the book to my chest as I stood up, full of renewed hope. I knew that life would throw curveballs and I would inevitably get hit with them, there would be ups and downs and I will fall. Falling isn't important, falling isn't what makes the journey A journey; getting up and trudging on, that's what makes a journey, that's what makes you who you are. I walked home to face the music, I didn't like that station anyways.

Thank you Charolette and Wilbur.