Seething at my parents for some injustice, I was determined to escape this family, and live life on my own. At age 9, I was confident that I could create a better life on my own.
Grabbing my backpack from my closet, I shoved in the necessities: change of clothes, diary, toothbrush, towel. I had recently read The Hatchet, so I knew that I needed to be prepared for any survival emergency. I grabbed a bag of trail mix, a flashlight, scissors, and for good measure, my dad’s hammer.
It was mid-afternoon, and my family members all seemed to be preoccupied. I left the house without a goodbye, and started on my journey. I walked down the street, and found an empty lot with a tall tree. After swinging my backpack up onto a branch, I hoisted myself up. For the next few hours, I munched on trail mix while writing in my diary.
By now it was early evening, and I was starting to get cold. I had forgotten to bring a jacket. As I scrawled my angry thoughts onto the pages of my diary, my emotions began to settle and quiet. My thighs were starting to hurt from sitting in the tree for so long. My thoughts began to drift to wondering what my mom was fixing for dinner, which was sure to be more satisfying than trail mix.
As the sun started to disappear behind the hill, I resolved to return home. The comfort of a warm bath and my own bed sounded far better than sleeping in an uncomfortable tree all night. When I came through the door, I expected my family to be relieved at my return. Instead, I found my brothers playing video games, and my parents talking with each other in the kitchen. Everyone was carrying on with life as usual, completely unaware that I had even left the house.
“Oh well,” I thought to myself. I flopped onto the couch next to my brothers, and decided to leave my runaway plan for another day.