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Is it possible to orgasm from the thought of food?
Pizza was the last thing I ordered before I left home. Mom was on another date, so I called Five Star Pizza to fend for myself. Italian seasonings filled the air before I even opened the box. I burnt the tip of my tongue, tasting the first bite. Pepperoni rolls were just too delicious to wait for them to cool. Bread baked by hand in the store, stuffed with equal parts of mozzarella and sauce. Pepperonis over-flowed from each delectable piece. It was heaven on a plate.
The calories didn’t matter; the cheese meant the world to me.
Thinking about the flavors was all it took to make my mouth water.
There wouldn’t be any more pizza for me.
Not for a while.
The self-checkout was empty. Standing in line would have been exhausting. My feet grew more and more tired with each step. I opened my backpack and pulled out my stash of cash. Seven dollars. That’s all I had.
How the hell was I ever going to survive on seven fucking dollars?
The machine beeped, then it devoured four dollars–a small fortune for a can of chicken and a large bottle of water. In a sick, twisted joke, the robot spat a few pennies at me.
It was just another addition to my change graveyard, a.k.a. the bottom of my backpack.
A few benches lined the wall against the bathroom. The scent of the barely edible chicken hit my nose immediately after peeling off the top. The liquid that was really more of a gel jiggled in the can. Bile rose in my esophagus.
“Here goes,” I whined, picking up the first chunk with my thumb and pointer finger.
My stomach gargled.
Neither of us were very excited about the sustenance I was about to consume, if you could even call it that.
The slimy bite slid around on my tongue.
With a gag, I swallowed.
“One bite down.” I took a deep breath and took another bite.
With each bite, the experience became less of a chore and more of a necessity. I had to eat if I wanted to live. Which I wanted to do… right?
Anything that could go wrong did. Always. Still, I didn’t want to give up. Not yet, anyway.
Somehow, I ate every drop of goo from the can without vomiting.
Hmmm… Had my mother turned off my cell service yet? I pulled out the device to find it still in working order. Any hope that perhaps my mom would actually care enough to call or text diminished with the lack of notifications.
Where do kids go when they run away?
I cannon balled into the google rabbit hole.
Apparently, the National Runaway Hotline is the first place families can look if a loved one runs away. If anyone wanted to get away from the world and start over, they could go to Quebec, Denmark, or New Zealand. There was an entire process for ditching the present and starting a new life somewhere else. I din’t have the cash that would take, and going to college was important to my dad. I had to go. For him…
The map application located two homeless shelters in town. Would that be safer than being at home? Would I be able to sleep surrounded by strangers? Ninety-two percent of homeless women have been physically or sexually abused throughout their lifetime. Was I going to be another statistic?
The next article shared the legality of running away. The act itself isn’t a crime. However, there are a lot of other offenses that could be applied. All it would take is a tip from my mother and I’d be in the slammer. She could say that I was drinking underage. If she mentioned anything about the drugs she found in my room a few months ago, I’d be doomed.
“Young lady! Are you waiting for someone?” An elderly woman asked when she passed my bench?
Was this purely a waiting game?
Was my mother lurching in a corner, watching and waiting? Was her new lover coiled, looking for an opportunity to strike?
“Oh, sweet girl. You look terrified.” She sat down on the bench beside.
