The pistol was cocked, ready to go. Tears falling and falling down Alyssa's face. She had a picture of them together on her lap. She had always felt like running away, this time she was gonna do it. She never felt like the perfect girl, especially not for Tommy. She felt too young to be with him, too old to be told what to do. The bed was made, and she was leaving a crinkle on the comforter where she was sitting. She was praying that she was alone; and that he could just find her later after his 'staff meeting that was running late.' That, she knew, was bullshit. He came home in the dead of night, smelling like perfume she hated and beer that she hated even more. And cigarettes, always smelling like cigarettes.
It was now or never, she thought. It didn't make sense to her, this idea of taking her life to make him feel worse, when he didn't give a shit anyway. Life didn't make sense to her either; she just needed to get out of there. She laid back on the bed. Pistol cocked, ready to go. She stared at that picture one last time. A voice in her head shouted 'runaway;' she leaped of the bed, and ran, leaving the gun behind, as fast as she could.