Wet grass dampens my sneakers with each step I take. It’s technically morning, but my head is still pounding from the blaring music of the party I attended. It was supposed to last until ten o’clock, but it has to be 3 AM by now, judging by the position of the moon in the blackened night sky.

I guess most of my night has been spent running from the police, but not for anything too serious. I’m not into those crazy drugs a lot of other teenagers are. In fact, I don’t think alcohol’s too bad for my age.
An alertness sweeps over me as I approach my aunt Samara’s house. This is where I’ve been staying for the past five weeks. It’s a quaint little home, just enough for her retirement fund to afford. She used to be a professional baker - a damn good one at that. It’s not hard to tell the house is in rough shape though. Sometimes the ceiling leaks in spots, and the brick walls are crumbling.
Eyes pinned wide open, I peer into the kitchen window. Her bedroom light’s on. Crap! I think to myself. She knows I’m not home yet… It’s hard to keep my nerves under control. Getting chewed out by my aunt isn’t the most exciting thought, so I’m careful and quiet as I make my way to my bedroom window. Sober me was merciful on tipsy me, leaving my window open. All I have to do is get the screen out of the way, and-
“Izzy? Are you out there?” I hear my aunt Samara call out the window. Instinctively, I pin myself against the side of our house, a few feet from the window-frame. Thorns from the rosebushes stick into my pants, hooking me in and causing me to topple over. The leaves shake loudly against the silence of the night.
“Izzy… it’s three in the morning…” she calls out to me, having apparently heard my spill. At least I was right about my time-estimate.
“Listen, Aunt Samara, I was just taking a walk!”
“You’re drunk,” she proclaims softly, “and it doesn’t matter what you were doing, honey. Won’t you come inside? It’s only fifty degrees out there tonight.”
My skin crawls when I realize how worried she is about me. Me. It makes me sick to my stomach to think of her concerned nature, her loving smile, and how she constantly gets all touchy-feely. Yes, this is the true Aunt Samara, not some fierce parent-figure who’s actually got a punishment in mind.
I hastily make my way to the front door. While I wait for Aunt Samara to let me in, I begin grinding the toe of my sneaker against the cement steps. It’s a good way to relieve my own impatience. Now that she’s mentioned it, I realize how cold it is. I’ve got the goosebumps to prove it.
The warmth of the living room pours onto me when she opens the door. She must’ve been baking something because I can both smell and feel the result. The overwhelming scent of baked bread washes over me. When I step inside, the light hurts my eyes, causing me to shield them with my forearm. Aunt Samara’s hand gently caresses my shoulder, causing me to shudder.
“Oh, little Izzy, you’re so cold…” she chimes in a low tone, her eyebrows knit in concern. She looks so weary. “You should have brought a jacket.” Aunt Samara keeps eyeing me up. She’s trying way too hard to make sure I’m alright. Her hand makes contact with my upper arm, and that just tips me over the edge.
“Hey - don’t touch me,” I snap, “and I lost my jacket anyway, so what difference does it make?” I brush off my arm as if a grotesque insect had just landed on it.
Her mouth gapes for a moment as if shocked by something I said. In a passive manner, she heads over to the closet by the front door. Opening the narrow door, she delves into the barren space and digs out a dusty hoodie that belongs to neither of us. It’s tempting to struggle while she puts it on me, but I find it in myself to stay still. She admires me afterwards, her glistening eyes set atop an overly warm smile.
“See, isn’t that better? I’m sure you’re nice and warm now.”
“Yeah, I guess,” I manage to say. “You don’t gotta do any of this, though…”
Again, she slaps me across the face with her sickeningly sweet smile. Naturally, I roll my eyes, and that’s when she tucks my hair behind my ear. Acting purely out of instinct, my hand flies forward and grabs her by the wrist. There’s a little too much happening for me to realize what I’ve done, and by the time I get ahold of myself, I’m staring into my aunt’s terrified eyes and scared face. It makes my stomach twist. There’s still a healthy dose of anger in me, and I can’t keep it in.
“I said, please don’t touch me.” I’m instantly slammed with regret. Here I am, threatening the only person I have left. Aunt Samara is the single family member who took me after my mother passed away last year. I can’t feel grateful for it though. She’s always pushing her caring demeanor and always acts like she loves me too much. I’ve never had to put up with something so embarrassing before.
My heart drops when she nods in acknowledgment and takes her hand away so gingerly. Distancing herself, she massages her hand and gazes at me with these longing, teary eyes.
“It’s all right, Izzy… I know it’s been really hard for you to adjust to living here ever since your mother passed away.” When Aunt Samara speaks to me, it’s like she’s apologizing. My left nostril twitches and spasms uncontrollably in disbelief. Never has she mentioned Mom, and it usually irritates me when other people do. She’s left me no room to feel bad about myself, and ironically, it’s made me feel even worse.
Frustrated by her actions, I decide to storm off to the bathroom. The hallway is brief, giving me little room to shake Aunt Samara off the trail. I hear her coming up behind me, heightening my irritation. Why does she have to be so persistent?!
“Please wait!” Aunt Samara calls out, right before I slam the bathroom door in her face. “Please open the door,” she continues, but I refuse to let her soppy, crying voice get to me. She can’t coax me out of here, I decide. There’s a comfy rug on the floor in front of the bathtub, so that’s where I settle down.
It gets really quiet in the house. Consumed in reading the back of a shampoo bottle, I can’t care less about what my aunt is doing. Kicking my feet up onto the toilet lid, I lean back against the bathtub, letting my legs droop in an unladylike position. I should paint my toes, I contemplate, brushing my thumb over my big toenail. There’s still a bit of black nail polish on it from last time.
The sound of a number being dialed outside the door gets me onto my feet. With my ear pinned to the door, I listen carefully to the conversation. Obviously, I can only hear Aunt Samara’s half, but that doesn’t lessen my curiosity.
“I don’t know,” I hear my aunt say. “I’m not sure what to do anymore. Yes, she came back ten minutes ago. I do realize what time it is… Dennis, please! I need your help.” There’s a pause. “She needs her father,” she whispers in an especially quiet voice.
It only takes a moment for the entire situation to come together in my mind. Stabbing pain throbs through my hand, causing me to investigate. It’s my nails digging themselves into my palm. I can’t blame myself for it though.
She’s calling my father, the one who abandoned me and my mother because he couldn’t handle being a dad, and the one that wanted me to be aborted. My mom decided to keep me, even if it meant they had to break up. There’s no way that she cares about me if she’s doing this. Her entire act really has been an act, and all she wants to do is get rid of me!
Before I can get a grip, I tear out of the bathroom. Aunt Samara is propped against the wall by her shoulder. I can’t see her face from here, but I can tell there’s worry in her voice. I can’t believe she lied to me.
“It would take her some time to get used to the idea,” Aunt Samara continues to my father, “perhaps tomorrow? It’s a Saturday, so she’ll be here. Oh, I’m so worried that-”
Guided by rage and impulsiveness, I devour the distance between my aunt and I.
“What the hell are you doing?” I shout at her, hoping it’ll make her feel like a stranger. Aunt Samara starts to turn around, but I don’t let her. She’s pinned against the wall before she can even reconsider her actions, and I don’t plan to let her up. I don’t get to see her trusting eyes, her harmless expression. It’s hard to believe she could do something so sinister as calling my father, a man who wouldn’t mind if I was dead.
“Izzy, Izzy- wait!” she cries out. A painful wave of guilt flows through my chest, along with the increasing adrenaline. Not knowing what else to do, I simply hold her there, unable to believe I’ve gone so far.
A small, faint voice comes from her cellular device. “Samara? Samara! I’m calling the police.” Because of the way I’m holding her, there’s no way she can respond to him. Her soft sobbing leaves me in a trance, sending tremors through my strained arms.
“Izzy, don’t do this,” she manages to say. She tries to turn her head to look at me, but I can’t take looking into her eyes.
Realizing what the situation has evolved into, panic rushes through me. This house, previously a peaceful safe haven, is unwelcoming and frightening. The police are coming, and my aunt has every right to turn me in. I’m going to go to jail, I think to myself, causing me to start hyperventilating.
The only option I have is to flee. It’s not long until I’ve raced through the hallway, the living room, and out the front door. I can hear her calling after me, but there’s no way I’m stopping. The farther away I get, the better it is.
By the time I realize how screwed I am, it’s been thirty minutes, and I’m a mile away. The sidewalks I tread are deteriorating, and plant life blooms between the crumbling cracks. The lights flicker on and off every so often, occasionally leaving me in darkness.
Ironically, I find myself grateful for the hoodie Aunt Samara gave me because if it wasn’t for that kind gesture, I would be freezing by now. The temperature keeps getting lower, and I’m starting to shake uncontrollably. It might be partly due to the adrenaline.
There’s some temptation to stop, and eventually, I give in. I spot a parked car, and without a second thought, lean against it.
Suddenly, the lights inside of the car flicker on, and my mind scrambles to react. It’s a cop car. How did I walk into this?! I ask myself, although I can’t come up with a good answer. It was just a stupid mistake. I’ve made a lot of stupid mistakes tonight.
The window rolls down slowly, and the officer shines his light in my face. I don’t even think to hide my appearance. He’s probably one of the cops who’s out looking for the violent teenager who assaulted her aunt.
“Hey, kid,” he slurs out tiredly. “You up to no good?” When he speaks, I sense a bit of sarcasm in his groggy voice.
“Yeah. You know, the usual. I went and pissed off the last person who cared about me,” I admit, not caring what he thinks.
The cop suddenly gives me his full, sober attention. “You a runaway?”
I ponder this for a moment. “...Yeah, I guess. What’s it to you?”
“Well, you know I’m a cop, right?”
“No, thought you were John Cena.”
“First of all, I never served in the military. Second of all, you think I’m built like that guy?”
“Just about,” I comment sassily. Most of the time, I get a bad feeling from cops, although this guy doesn’t seem so bad. The truth about my situation may be a dreadful weight on my shoulders, but I feel as though it’s harmless sharing it with him. It’s really hard for me to realize the extent of my actions anyway, so maybe if I talk to him it’ll help me sum it all up.
“Well lemme tell you something,” he starts, “when I was your age, I tried running away too. I was a little wittier, though, ‘cause I actually brought with me some necessities.” I can’t help but roll my eyes at his criticism.
Silence falls in the air, lingering for quite a while.
“So why’d you run away?” he finally asks. I get the feeling he takes more interest in picking at his nails than listening to me though.
“I told you, I pissed off the last somebody who cares about me.”
“You think someone who really cares about you would want you gone?”
Absentmindedly, I snort, coming through with a sassy rebuttal. “Yeah, apparently she does.” He receives an intense glare from me.
“Listen, girly,” the cop says, “I’m not gonna make you go back. I’m not gonna drive you home if you don’t want me to, but lemme ask you something.” I perk up, intrigued by the idea of a question. He’s looking me square in the eyes. “Do you love her? Whoever this somebody is.”
That was the last thing I expected him to ask. No, it wasn’t even on the list I had imagined. Do I love Aunt Samara? The very thought of it makes me wanna shudder and puke, but coming from this guy, it’s different.
“Well, yeah-”
“What’s the address?”
I place my hands on my hips, giving my chin a tilt upwards as I eyeball him, acting all-knowing. “Thought you said you weren’t gonna make me go home.”
“I’m not… I’m just asking you, what do you think she’s doing right now? You know, besides being up all night worried about you.”
The thing that bothers me is that sound exactly like something Aunt Samara would do. It’s what she was doing before I came home, so I can’t imagine how she feels right now.
Now I don’t know what to do. How can she be worried about me if all she wants to do is pawn me off to my dad? At the same time, I know what my aunt is like. She has to be so scared with me gone. It’s ironic because I’m sure I hurt her.
Honestly, I don’t know where else I’d go. With extreme reluctance, I give in to the cop’s offer. Apparently, his name’s Hank, and he did know who I was. At first, it really irritates me because I was under the impression that he was just on a patrol. I punish him with silence and stare out the window until we reach my aunt’s house.
He parks along curb, and we just sit there in silence for a while. I can’t tell if he doesn’t know what to say, or if he’s waiting for me to talk first. He still goes first though.
“So,” he says, turning to look at me, “your aunt told us that she isn’t pressing charges. You can just head on inside and see if she’s awake. It’ll be all right.”
Hank unlocks the door, and I step out of the car, closing it behind me. The window’s rolled down.
“Thanks,” I mutter out of habit, then glance back at him. He’s smiling at me like I’m his baby girl, and I just won the race. I wave at him, reminding him that I’m not a photograph he’s looking at. Then he speeds off into the night, leaving me at my aunt’s house.
Completely tuckered out, I walk up to the front door for the second time this night. The door’s unlocked, so I head inside. All of the lights are off except for the one in my aunt’s bedroom. When I enter the doorway, I see her curled up in her pajamas in bed. There’s a box of photographs within her reach, and a sloppy pile of pictures in front of her. Fondly smiling, she switches through photos of my mother and I.
She finally notices me and shoots up. Her eyes are bloodshot from either sleep-deprivation or crying.
“You’re home,” she croaks. When she smiles at me, her lips quiver with weariness.
It takes me a while to say anything. “Yeah, I am. I’m, uh, here.” Trying to be casual, I lean against the doorway and cross my arms over my chest.
“No, come here, Izzy. I’d like to talk to you…” she says, beckoning me over. Reluctantly, I approach her bed and sit beside her, looking over the many pictures scattered around. They’re of my mother and me, my aunt and her, and a lot of other people I either don’t know or don’t remember.
“Tell me, do you remember when your mother passed away?” she asks carefully, not knowing how I’ll react. I wish that I can act like it doesn’t bother me.
“Yeah…”
“Do you remember why?”
“Lung cancer,” I say automatically. This is a conversation I’ve had lots of times, so it’s familiar.
Aunt Samara lets loose a burdened sigh, glancing out the window. The moon shines through the darkness, and I find myself staring at it too.
“That isn’t why she passed away, little Elizabeth,” my aunt says. She reaches over to take my hand. For some reason, I don’t move it. I don’t move a muscle. Every ounce of my attention is caught on what she said.
“...I want to know the truth,” I say unsurely. I don’t know if I’m ready to accept something new. I can tell she can sense it. Still, she turns her eyes away from me, squeezing my hand tightly. It’s almost comforting.
“You know that she was on heroin,” she says to me.
“Yes, I knew that, but she was clean for those three months.”
“She wasn’t clean for very long…” She hurriedly says, but is gentle about it. I want to say something, anything, yet no words come. It feels like years until Aunt Samara has the courage to finish what she’s saying.
“I remember getting the call. As soon as I found out it was about Karen, I knew what happened. I drove to the hospital where she was being held, and I had to answer their questions. Izzy, she died from a drug overdose.”
I don’t know I’m crying until a big fat tear rolls down my cheek. When my aunt reaches to wipe it away, she coos in sympathy, then brushes my hair behind my ear. This time, I don’t lash out. There’s no reason to.
A strange urge comes to me, making me yearn for an embrace. It makes my skin crawl. An unfamiliar shudder runs through my body, and it keeps happening over and over again. I can’t believe I’m sobbing in front of her like this, but it doesn’t feel weird. It makes me feel like a little kid who just tripped and scuffed their knee. She watches me with a tilted head.
“I just want the best for you… and I’m sorry for calling your father. He was meant to step in after Karen died. But I won’t let you end up with someone who won’t even come visit you on the weekends. Do you understand, Izzy?”
I don’t even move, and simply sit there, absorbing all of the love I refused to take. There’s silence for a while.
“...How about we visit her tomorrow?” she asks.
“I’d really like that,” I say into her shoulder, never wanting it to end. It’s what I’ve always wanted.