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He doesn’t know why he’s running.
He’s not even running, just shuffling down the sidewalk and throwing furtive glances back home. He sprinted down the driveway, sure, Dad shouting his name all the while, but when it became clear Dad would just wait for him to come back like always, the wind quickly left his sails.
The sidewalk’s a dull, dull grey in the evening light. C00lkidd kicks a pebble, hard. It rolls away harmlessly, each mocking clack making his hands itch for his GUI.
He doesn’t know why he’s running; he just knows he’s mad.
He can’t remember what started it. Something stupid. Probably an everyday tussle about chores or C00lkidd’s friends or even how much soda they had left in the cupboard, and the next thing C00lkidd knows, he’s out of his chair, Dad’s pinching the bridge of his nose, and they’re both screaming, “you always do this!”
He’s hungry. He didn’t want dinner, but he’s hungry.
The neighborhood makes it hard to be mad, it and its polite row of off-white walls. Through a window, someone’s dad watches football, a muffled announcer barely audible. One house down, pastel bicycles with tinsel hanging off their handles lay in their lawn. A car drives down the street. He feels stupid. Its driver’s probably looking out their window and wondering what that splotch of red is doing hanging his head on the side of the road.
He wonders if they’ll talk about him when he disappears. Because he will- this time, he’s really going to do it. He wonders if they’ll whisper to each other about whatever his poor father will do, he wonders if they’ll line up at his house and give condolences to their reclusive neighbor; he wonders if that’d make Dad feel sorry about everything, if perhaps the adults could shame him into tearily telling C00lkidd’s empty room he was right.
Or maybe, they won’t remember that kid with the hand-drawn shirt. Maybe they’ll tell each other at their neighborhood birthday parties, “isn’t it so much quieter now?” and that’ll be the end of that. Maybe his dad will get scared again and move out, leaving any memory of that problem child behind. And maybe, C00lkidd thinks, his heart twisting grotesquely, he should blow this place up before that happens.
But his toys are still in his bedroom, and his mac n’ cheese is still on the table, and he wants to sneak back some day to get them. And he’d feel stupid, anyways, causing a ruckus in this polite little suburb of all places.
He doesn’t know why he’s running. It's not that bad.
It wasn’t their worst argument, not by a long shot. He remembers this one fight. He doesn’t know how it started. He doesn’t know who escalated. He just knows that at some point, Dad shouted, “I don’t have to do all this! I was happier before you, okay?!”
The house went silent. The AC groaned. Dad glared at him.
C00lkidd sobbed. Dad looked like he’d been slapped.
They stood there for a moment, maybe a couple hundred, just looking at each other's worn, glistening eyes. At some point, C00lkidd went to his room. Dad didn’t stop him.
He stared at his ceiling and whispered, “I hate him. I hate him,” until he was crying too much to talk. Silently, he condemned Dad with every venomous word he knew, but he never moved except to reach for his Drakobloxxer doll like he was six again.
The next morning, Dad woke his son up himself. C00lkidd pulled his blanket over his shoulders and pressed his face deeper into the mattress. Gently, Dad reached past the blanket. He picked him up, tucked C00lkidd’s head into his neck that smelled of salt and cheap body wash, and he told him, in the sweetest voice he had, “I made pancakes, kid.”
When he placed C00lkidd in his chair, he pressed a kiss atop his head.
He said, “Dad loves you.”
The kitchen smelled golden, like the sun through their jammed window shades, the long lost smell of their stovetop being put to good use. Somehow, C00lkidd kept the tears silent. The tirade he’d rehearsed endlessly last night crumbled in his throat, and that was the end of the argument.
Four months later, he runs.
Maybe this time, when he inevitably comes home after making it three blocks, Dad will apologize. He’ll list to C00lkidd every time he was right. He’ll tell him that he does remember, actually, every time he hurt C00lkidd, that it mattered to him just as much as it did to his son. He’ll say, “I’m so sorry,” no tiptoeing or consolation prizes. Then the week after, he’ll tell C00lkidd he loves him without needing an argument first. Then the next week, and the week after that, until C00lkidd kicks that memory out his head.
C00lkidd keeps walking. One more block, and he’ll think about turning around. He knows Dad won’t have magic words ready, that he’ll just be at the table with his tired, meek smile, food untouched, that they’ll both think insults at each other over the clink of the peace treaty that is their silverware, but C00lkidd is hungry, tired, and ten. One more block, and he’ll turn around. One more block, and Dad will still be Dad, for better or for worse. Just one more block.
At ten years old, C00lkidd never comes home.