The first time Beth tried to run away was when she was six years old and she returned to her house after eleven minutes. She ran away for the same reasons every other child ever runs away, she had gotten upset with her parents. However, eventually all children stop but Beth never could. She craved adventure and through these adventures she found escape. Escape from all the yelling and fighting. Escape from the looks her mother shoots her whenever she isn’t the perfect child. Escape from every piece of pain she ever felt but no matter how far out the door she went, she couldn’t get far enough from the pain. 

 

The last time Beth ever ran away was when she was sixteen years old, her parents had been arguing with her since the moment she woke up. She will never forget the passive aggressive way her mother positioned herself in the kitchen, and the way her step-father refused to look up from his newspaper to listen to what she was saying. She can still feel the tears running down her cheeks and dripping onto her chest. They wouldn’t give her a chance to speak so she grabbed the blue vase off of the shelf and threw it at the wall, the vase shattered, which finally forced her step-father to look up. But before he could completely turn his neck to face her, she was out the door. She didn’t stop to put on shoes or to grab a coat. As soon as she stepped outside, her socks were immediately soaked with slush from the pavement outside her door. The cold air began to grab onto her ears and nose as her face slowly turned red. Normally when she runs away she goes to the park next to her old elementary school and sits on the swings until she can’t feel her feet or her stomach won’t stop growling. This time, she didn’t turn left to go towards the park, instead she kept running straight. 

 

She could see people outside their all to similar houses but all she heard was the wind wiping by her ears. Eventually she came to the bride in the trail, everybody always avoided it because of how old it was. However, Beth refused to stop running and as she stepped onto the bridge it began to shake. By her third step the wood panels split, she fell through the bottom of the bridge and when she hit the cold wet ground, her head hit a rock, laying in the shallow waters of the creek. 

 

Her feet weren’t cold anymore, her face was no longer red and her head wasn't injured. Not only that, but her head didn’t hurt, in fact it felt light and there was no smell of blood, only pine trees and rain. She slowly began to stand up as and she did, she was surrounded by trees and in the distance there were mountains. The bridge was gone along with all the snow. She ran through the forests for what seemed like hours, but there was no sign of her neighbourhood anywhere. Eventually she came across an opening, engulfed by the forest, it was bursting with potential. Beth closed her eyes and took a deep breath, breathing in her newfound serenity. The air felt cool in her nose and the smell of cottage wood filled her body. As she opened her eyes, a beautiful cottage stood before her. As she opened the door, the rain fell off the roof, trickling down her cheek and falling onto her chest. As she took her first step into the house, the wood panels creaked and the warm air tickled her ears. The world was silent for as far as she could see and as she walked into the home, the girl lying beneath the bridge was saved. 

 

- - - - - -

 

 

I turned around only in time to see the reflection of the flames in Mark’s eyes. Then just like that, he was gone, there was nothing left of him. In a moment like this, I know that I’m supposed to feel sorrow, or sympathy for his family, but how can I when it is happening everywhere I look. Mark was my friend, but so was Joe and Sarah and every other person here. We trained together, we lived together and we fought together, I suppose it seems only fitting that we die together too. I remember from the first night we were here, we all sat around the tent and talked about our families and our reasons for fighting. Mark had two daughters, one was eighteen, the other was fourteen, both blonde just like his wife. I know this from the photo he showed me that they took just before he left for their annual Christmas card. I told him that the photo was nice and he told me that right up until the picture was taken, his daughters had been fighting. His youngest hated photos and his oldest was very controlling. He said that it was moments like those that made him happy to be here. I just looked as his face sarcastically laughed off that remarkably depressing comment. However, Mark loved his family and for the most part they were the picture perfect suburban group. That photo is now the last one they will ever have of him.

 

My family never made a card, probably because my wife and I divorced when my daughter was only four years old. She hardly let me see her but I tried my best to stay in her life. That’s the hardest part for most people around here, not getting to see their loved ones everyday, I suppose its a little easier for me because I’ve done it for twelve years. That was all the time I got to grieve over Mark because yet another bomb hits about forty feet away from me and I am called to reposition. A group of six of us retreat behind a barrier of piled up dirt from the aftermath of the bombs. We sit there, our shoes covered in mud, our bodies drenched in sweat and the smell of blood and flesh surrounding us entirely. A couple of the guys are reloading their guns, while one woman reties her shoes, as if tripping is her biggest problem right now. I just sit there, waiting for a signal, trying to see through all of the smoke but it’s nearly impossible. In war, the worst thing to do is expose yourself in plain sight, you will die instantly. Everyday I see young recruits trying to reposition and running right through an open field only to get blown up.

 

My mind is distracted as I hear the sound of a plane's engine grow louder until the noise is coming from right above my head. The six of us exchange worried looks and without instruction, rise and begin to run for cover. I can sense that something is falling down on us and we have seconds left. I turn my head back only to watch George and two other soldiers, one male and one female, be hit. I can feel the heat on my back as I run faster than I ever had before. It’s so hard to run through all the mud and we have been under attack for at least five hours now so my body is screaming at me to stop but I can’t. The smell of blood grows stronger with each second that passes, the air is so hot and thick that I feel nauseous. For as far as I can see, there is no where to hide, no where to protect myself but I won’t stop running until someone makes me. As a soldier, I almost feel obligated to be brave, but honestly, I am so scared right now. As I’m running I can feel the tears streaming down my cheeks and dripping onto my chest. Then I’m hit.

 

I feel no pain, but everything suddenly goes black. Am I dead? I don’t feel dead but I must be. I don’t feel hot or exhausted anymore, if anything I am a little chilled. My eyes flutter open and the light from fire streams in. I panic for a second thinking it is another attack but once my eyes fully open, I see that it’s a fireplace. I slowly turn around and I see her, my beautiful daughter, Beth.