Ben Taylor's Story [Chapter 2]

I woke up on a bench the next morning.
My neck hurt, my back ached, and my head was spinning.  All I smelled was the fermented food and alcohol in the trash can next to me. I thought I was going to throw up. Someone screamed and I flinched and gripped my head. What was wrong with me? Did I get drunk last night? No, that couldn’t be; I would remember. I’m sure of it. I’ve never been drunk before, so I didn’t know positively if I’d remember – but I didn’t consume any alcohol last night at all. It was probably just from sleeping on a park bench next to a fuming trash can.
At first, when I really looked around, I didn’t know where I was. Where was my warm bed? Where was my teenage cave of a room? Where was Janie, bouncing on my bed, waking my up to walk her to school?
And then I remembered – I ran away. Too much going on at home. Too much hatred. Too much misunderstanding. I tried to remember what finally did it for me.
And of course.
It was my mother.
Her constant yelling, blaming me, whining, getting angry at me for being through with her – it’s difficult to live with. My life was pretty much summed up in two songs. And, let’s just say they weren’t the happiest of songs. As of now, one of them was stuck in my head, and it got me angry as I matched the lyrics with the story of my life…
Come on down, and see the idiot right here…
My mother and father, blaming me for everything, making me feel horrible.
Too fucked to beg and not afraid to care…
Me, showing my feelings, letting it all out.
What’s the matter with calamity anyway? Right? Get the fuck outta my face…
Me, constantly being miserable, being tired of everyone.
Understand that I can’t feel anything…
Being numbed by the constant annoyance that I deal with.
I feel like a wound, like I got a fucking gun against my head…
Feeling like I was the blame all the time, the victim, depression.
You live when I’m dead.
They’ll be better off if I was dead.
People equal shit, whatcha gonna do? People equal shit, cause I’m not afraid of you.
Doing whatever I wanted, because I didn’t care anymore, I wasn’t afraid of my parents, I don’t care that they kicked me out, I don’t care that I was alone, I don’t care that I was hated by pretty much everyone, except about two people.
Pretty sad, right?1

I walked the streets, wondering how I would spend my days. I wasn’t going back to school, that was for sure. Why would I waste my time doing that? I just got made fun of anyway. My teachers hated me. I was judged by one look. I may look like one of the druggies; but that doesn’t mean I am one. I’m just…me…Ben Taylor…and, that’s all I’ll ever be. But, I guess…for most people…
…It’s not enough.2

And then some random memory of reading The Catcher in the Rye at a too-young age popped into my head. I remembered how it had depressed me so much, and how I wondered how someone could run away like that. But Holden Caulfield didn’t quit school, he got expelled. It was totally different than what I had done.
I decided to look in the nearest police station, and see if anyone was actually looking for me. I looked for “missing boy” articles, and found none. I smiled, and thought, I was right. They don’t care. Why I was so proud, I don’t know.
I continued walking…I don’t know where, just walking. What was I supposed to do? Where was I supposed to be walking to? I had no friends walking with me. I had no one to talk to…
And suddenly, that’s what I wanted. Someone to talk to.
So I walked around, thinking about where all the kids went. It was a Sunday; there should be some around somewhere. I headed to the nearest McDonald’s and sat at a booth. Just then, four kids came in. I knew them from school. They weren’t my best friends, they weren’t even really my friends, but I though, if it didn’t bug them, I might as well give it a shot, and I called them over to my booth.
It was Ryan Ulman, Rachel Crawford, Sean White, and Tina May. Ryan and Rachel were going together, and so were Sean and Tina. They must have been on a double-date or something. Maybe going to see a movie, spending the day out together, with friends.
People who cared about them.
“Hey…uh…Taylor,” Ryan said. “Crap what’s the first name…”
“Ben,” Rachel broke in, “Ben Taylor.” She smiled a warm smile at me, and I knew why. A long time ago, in seventh grade or so, me and Rachel were going out for about…a week. It ended quickly because we were on two opposite ends of the stereotype chain…she was a prep, I was a skate punk. So naturally, it couldn’t happen. It was her friends that did it. Rachel and I are two people who believe the stereotyping needs to stop, and everyone should just be friends with everyone. Like in kindergarten.
“Rachel,” I said, giving a slight nod. Her smile seemed to disappear after that. I was in no mood for warm smiles and polite greetings. I had just run away from home and spent the night on a park bench. Rachel was back at her house, the giant, four-story thing with the twelve-foot deep pool and the diving board and hot tub, with her giant room and balcony where she could look out at the stars at night. I came from my little, one-story, run down shack where I lived with my evil parents and wonderful little sister that I had left. I had to send her a letter.
“What’s Ben doing here alone?” Sean asked like I wasn’t even there.
“Eating?” Tina inquired. I shook my head; my dark hair fell over my eyes.
“Living,” I told them. “I have no where else to go.”
“Don’t you have like…a house?” Ryan asked. I had to smile at his stupidity.
“Not anymore,” I said, still smiling. There it was, that proud feeling – I don’t know why I had it, what was the point? What did I have to be proud of?
“Did it burn?” Sean asked. It was the boys who were asking all the stupid questions. I wondered if this was what I looked and sounded like to the people around me, who had to listen to my wisecracks and idiotic remarks.
“I ran away, nimrod,” I told him. He looked taken back. “Sorry,” I said suddenly. The worst thing was happening. I was getting a knot in my throat – my lungs were tightening up…everything was a blur…my eyes were getting hot…
“I have to go,” I said, sliding out of the booth and running out the door.3

The first thing I did was begin my letter to my little sister, Janie.