Monologue About Moving Away

Clack, clack, clack. That is the noise my feet make when I usher myself up the stairs to safety. By safety, I mean my bedroom. Safe from? Not from the world, this isn’t a narrative about how the world is too hard for me to handle. Safety from my family rather. No, they’re not abusive and I don’t need to be saved from them. It’s more safety from not having to talk to them and just be by myself. Again, no, I don’t have long black straightened hair and listen to Metallica. I don’t like to be alone that much, it’s just a different story when I’m with my family. So, here’s the sitch: I love my family, they love me. But it’s easier to say you love someone when you tell them you do daily. Meaning, even if you tell the same people you love them everyday, do you say it out of a force of habit? Or do you say it because you mean it? I like to believe we mean it, but there have been doubts of mine that have truly scared me.
I had just gotten home from school and I was carrying a small bag of presents my two closest friends gifted me. That day started off better than any of my other birthday’s by said friends decorating my locker as a surprise. I remember stepping into the living room and instantly facing a 180 mood swing. I was having that feeling you get when you’re excited to eat leftovers of your favorite food, but then quickly remember the food was never there. Meanwhile, my Mom was feeling a typical case of motherly nosiness and asked what was inside the bag. After listing off most of the gifts, I came down to the last