Her Dreams Give Her Wings

Chapter One—Runaway Love

"This lost, loose feeling that no consequence could be so harmful as the sense of staying where you were, or of being who you are." –Lock and Key, Sarah Dessen.

Renesmee's POV

Have you ever just wanted to leave and never come back? Never have to look at anyone's face ever again? No matter how long you live?

Has dying alone ever looked so good that you would to anything to get it?

If you've never felt this way, then you can't understand what brought me to do this. Or what brought me here to the tunnel slide in the park.

Earlier that day...

"Ness! Where the hell are my meds?" my father yelled from the living room.

"Coming Daddy!" I replied back to him.

I got up from my bunk bed and walked over to my dresser where I put the bag I stole from my father's room. I looked down at the baggie and sighed. I popped open the bottle and put all the pills on the dresser. I opened the baggie and dumped its contents into the bottle: ecstasy. (A/N: Thank you, Mel!)

I've done my research. I know exactly what happens when you take this stuff.

I turned for the hall and stopped right in front of the stairs.

I almost switched the pills back. Almost. But I looked down and saw the cast on my two broken fingers and kept walking down.

That happened two nights ago.

He told me that if I touched the TV remote, he would break my fingers.

I just didn't think he was serious. I should have though. After seven years with just him, no one to protect me, you'd think I would have learned my lesson. Well, think again.

That's right. Seven years.

My mom died when I was two. She went to the gas station for a pack of cigarettes. When she went up to the counter to pay, a guy came up behind her. He held a gun up to her back and grabbed her hair and pulled her head backwards. He told her to give him all of her money. She did, and then...well, I guess you know what happened next.

I stopped at the doorway of the living room—the puke green walls staring me down—and took a deep breath gathering every ounce of courage that I had ever known.

I looked back down at the bottle and back up to my father lounging on the couch watching a game. This stuff makes you go crazy. That means the beating will be worse than usual.

I was fully prepared for that.

I would do anything to get out of here—including dying.

It's not like I haven't tried, it's just that when it doesn't work, it's very painful.

Yes, I feel pain on a regular basis. So, naturally, any pain that's avoidable, I avoid.

Which is why I quit cheerleading at my elementary school—the one and only thing that ever made me happy. But it was also another source of pain.

I put on my most angelic smile and fixed my muscles to stay that way.

I handed him the bottle and held my breath, waiting.

He looked at my suspiciously, then down at the bottle and a grin broke across his face. Then he turned his attention to the TV. He opened the bottle, making the popping sound, and took three pills out without ever taking his eyes off the TV.

Perfect! That was the exact amount I needed him to take for my plan to work. Enough to O.D., but not to kill.

I may want out, but I could never kill him. He is my father.

He leaned back on the sofa and started mumbling to himself.

He looked down at the food tray in front of him, studying it.

After about ten minutes of staring at it, he picked it up and whipped it across the room. Oh God, it's coming.

I closed my eyes tightly and held my arms close to my side, hands clenched into fists.

The first was the face.

One sharp smack square on the cheek. I didn't cry; I couldn't. That only makes him angrier.

He circled me, like I was the prey and he was the hunter. And technically, he was.

Next was the back.

Two punches to the spine. Then he came to stand in front of me again.

He picked the shins next.

This has happened many times before, and it's the worst. Especially when he still has on his steel-toed boots. He kicked at the air for a minute, practicing.

Then once...twice...three times to the shin. Which would have been crippling had hi not grabbed my hair before to keep me in front of him on my feet.

At first, he just stood there holding me by the hair.

I still didn't cry. Or scream. I stood like a stone in the middle of the hurricane. He pulled up on my hair and I automatically went onto my tip-toes to compensate. He pulled me to the side and then threw me to the wall as hard as her could, my heard smacking it loudly.

The mirror above me shook and rattled and crashed on the floor next to me. He walked beck to the couch and sat down.

I could tell the worst was almost over. The last thing he did before he blacked out was picking up the lamp and throwing to at me.

It hit me on the side of my head and shattered. I could feel the blood slowly tricking through my hair and onto my shirt. I could also tell that I had a concussion from hitting my head on the wall.

I got up slowly, being careful not to get blood on anything, and walked up the steps into the bathroom clumsily.

I looked in the mirror and gasped.

I was sure it looked worse than it really was, but that was a lot of blood.

I pulled my shirt off over my head and put it quickly over the gash right above temple.

Holding my shirt in place, I reached over and opened the closet and began digging around for gauze.

I know we had some in here, unless I used it all...

Yes! Got it.

I quickly unrolled it and expertly wrapped it around the gash and the rest of my head. I washed my hands and any part of my hair that I could. When I was finished I glanced back in the mirror, but had to look away quickly.

Bruises were covering every inch of my skin and my face was red from where he smacked me. My rib cage was pressing on my skin and my stomach looked hollow.

Sighing, I turned for the door.

I cracked the door and peeked into the hallway. Nothing.

Everything was absolutely quiet; absolutely terrifying. I shuddered.

I stepped slowly out into the hallway and listened for something, anything....Nothing.

I tip-toed into my room and closed the door quietly behind me.

I sprinted to my closet and threw the door open. I dug around inside trying to find the black duffle bag my grandma gave me.

Nothing! It didn't help that I was looking in the dark, but I didn't have time for this. I guess I'll have to settle for and old school backpack.

I pulled it down from the top shelf and closed the door.

I whirled around, facing my empty bedroom and fought back tears. I wasn't crying out of regret or even fear of my father. But it was fear; fear of the unknown. I had no idea what the outside world would hold for me, but I wasn't staying here any longer.

I ran to my bed and pulled off the old ratty teddy bear and the journal, which was all that I had left of my mother, from under the pillow and stuffed them into my bag.

Next, I ran to the dresser and pulled out the five shirts that were all I knew, the holey jeans, the black shorts, and the few pairs of good underwear I own.

This is it. This is all that I have to my name.

I only have one pair of shoes, too small and ruined, but I wasn't going barefoot. I zipped the bag closed and looked around me at all that I was sure of. I walked to the door, but before I left, I decided that a sweatshirt might be nice.

We live in South Carolina, but I t can still get a little cold at night and sometimes during the day.

I put a clean shirt on and grabbed my good dress that I had hidden away under my bed.

I put my backpack over my shoulders and the dress and sweatshirt folded over my arm.

I walked to the door and took one last look around me.

I backed away and closed the door before turning for the stairs.

When I reached the bottom step, I was relieved to see my father still lying on the couch. I walked up to him and grabbed his big hand in my small one.

I brought it to my lips and kissed it softly.

"Goodbye, Daddy. I love you. I'm sorry." I whispered, and dropped his hand. I lifted my hand to his face and brushed the stubble on his jaw gently.

I reached up on my toes and kissed him on the cheek. The tears were building behind my eyelids and my fingers and breath trembled. But I had to do this. There was no other option.

I turned my back on my father, the man who raised me; the man who beat me, and walked to the front door. With one last look around the smokey room, I opened the door and I was gone.

At first, I just walked down the familiar sidewalks that I've walked a thousand times before. I waved to the neighbors and stopped to smell the flowers or pet a dog just to play the charade; show people that nothing was wrong.

When the sun finally set behind the coulds, I started to run.

I knew exactly where I needed to go, and there was no point in waiting any longer.

I passed a few patrol cars on the way and hoped to God that they wouldn't see me and that my father hadn't reported me missing.

I could see the park when I was just coming up the hill and it made me smile. This is my new home.

How many kids dream about living at the park? How many can say that they really do?

I crawled into the big blue tunnel slide painted over a thousand times to hide graffiti.

It was actually very comfortable. The walls that were so close felt protective and welcoming.

That brings us back here.

If you thought today was bad, then you should see every Tuesday. He goes out and gets drunk with a bunch of friends. Fun.

I guess you might want to know my father, huh?

My father is Chad Michael Reed. He is 38 years old and very depressed. Obviously. He misses my mother a lot and he's made it no secret that he thinks it's my fault that she's gone. But it's not. It's his. He needed the cigarettes, and...well it doesn't matter. It's already done.

My father works at a glass factory. He's a big guy—260 pounds and six foot three inches tall. He has curly brown hair and sharp brown eyes. He is absolutely huge compared to me.

My name is Renesmee Carlie Red. I am nine years old and weigh 45 pounds. I'm short for my age, just under four feet. I'm a very smart girl and my father is the only person that I have, or had.

I look a lot like my mother. I have long, thick, bronze colored curls and big warm brown eyes.

My mother was AnnaLynne Rose Reed. She was only 31 when she died. She had the same warm eyes and beautiful hair. She was a tiny girl at 5 feet and she weighed 98 pounds after having me. She quit her job as a pre-school teacher to stay at home with me. I never got that time...

I don't have any grandparents left and my parents are only children. For now, the tunnel slide is my home and the homeless person in the woods, smoking a bong, is my only family. (A/N: Thank you, Kevin for that great bong idea? Lol)

With a sharp pain in my chest, I realized that I was now homeless, too. I only knew it was after she asked me to try her bong and I told her no because I didn't know what it was. Well, I do now. Gross.

I went to bed that night with a heavy heart.

I don't know how long I slept, but I woke with a start from a nightmare, that I realized all too soon was actually reality.

So, I really did all of that then, didn't I? it really happened. I reached up to my hair and felt the gauze that was still wrapped around my head.

I could also feel that it was soaked through with blood.

Oh well. Nothing I can do about it now.

I lay my head back down, and that was when I first heard them.

A man and a woman by the sound of it. Only, the woman was crying and the man was hushing her. I peeked through the hole in the slide and saw them on the swings.

The woman was sitting, head in her hands, sobbing. The man was standing behind her, arms wrapped around her stomach, whispering comfort in her ears.

The man was beautiful.

He had the same bronze hair as me that seemed to gleam in the moonlight. He was tall; about the size of my father, maybe a few inches shorter. He was wearing faded jeans and a striped blue button-up shirt that was untucked. His skin was the perfect tan color and his whispered words were like music. He was also thin and hand a nicely muscled body.

I couldn't see much of the woman, for she had her face hidden. Her hair fell around her like a water fall. It was wavy and a rich, deep brown. She was beautiful too, but I liked to man more. She was a small girl, just a little over five feet and thin. She was wearing a short light blue dress. Her skin was like porcelain.

I wanted badly to know what was making her cry so much, but she never spoke and the man only whispered.

I envied her for being able to cry.

So many years worth of tears are hidden behind these eyes. I wish i could just let them go, and with them, each memory that inflicted them.

I put my head back down and curled into a ball to keep the warmth around me.

I let the sobs and whispers drag me toward sleep.

Eventually, they got up and walked away. I know it because I could hear the crunch of gravel under their feet as they walked through the parking lot.

The woman had stopped crying and the man stopped whispering. I stayed up just long enough to hear them go, and with each fading footstep, my consciousness went with me. I drifted into a comfortable, east, peaceful sleep.

All I could see in the darkness what the face of the man. And all I could hear was the quiet, musical voice that was like a lullaby that he sang just for me.

A/N: So, that's my first story. Do you like it? Review, please!