Prologue
Carter
Staring into the public restroom mirror, I wondered why I could see myself in it. I mean, I knew it had to do with the fact that the back of the glass was painted black, and the light reflects off it instead of through it and so on…but why did this glass see so much more? How could this small circle see more of me than anyone else, or even I could; the dark, tired circles under my eyes, sunken cheeks and weary-lipped smile. My clothes hung loosely on me and I definitely needed some new shoes. No, a job, that’s what I needed. I looked like a hobo, but then again, I wasn’t far from one. It just amazed me how I could look and feel so much older than a 17 year old honors student, and no one ever noticed or cared.
Being an honors student, one would have thought I’d have made much better choices, as I carelessly smoked a cigarette at the bus stop. With me, I had an old, worn knapsack slung over one shoulder and my acoustic guitar over the other. This was the most ingenious and insane idea I’ve ever had, I thought, and it was definitely dangerous too. But, it felt so worth it. It felt more than worth it, it made me feel strong; which is something even the mirror wouldn’t understand.
I boarded the bus and sat in the back corner, opening a book to read. Next stop, New Milford. I flipped through the book’s pages slowly, but my mind was anywhere else. Would I be better off where I’m going, or would everything suck just the same? Would my mom find me? Traveling alone, and hours away from home was risky, but it was better this way. I knew where I was going, and I had faith I could start a better life there. A life that people would consider…a life!
Before I knew it, the bus had stopped and I was dropped off of at the corner of Main Street. Of course it started pouring, washing every happy thought right out of my mind. Sighing, I pulled out a map and held it over me as I sprinted east for about half a mile. I turned down Clove Lane and kept running until I got to a small, white house on the left side of the street. It stood about two stories high, with and old rustic look to it. The small porch was made up of a wooden deck, a small roof, and two beautiful white columns supporting it.
I rang the doorbell and was almost immediately greeted by Cindy Rodgers. Her tall, muscular figure shadowed over me with the most shocked expression I'd ever seen.
“Oh my…Carter? What are you doing here? Where’s your m-”.
“Can I explain inside? It’s pouring.”
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