I’m not stupid. I know why I’m like this. Why I run. Why I can’t accept goodness at face value without questioning it within an inch of its life. History, as basically an expert, repeats itself. My mum was a runner. My dad was a runner. I think if I look it in the face, I’ve been running away all my life. It can’t hurt me if it can’t catch me.

When my dad died, my mum ran away. She ran so far in her head no one could reach her. Not even me. Deep within a shell of what was she was safe, miles deep below the surface of her own consciousness she resided for three years. My dad died, which for a long time felt like he ran. It was preventable. But even before that he didn’t stay. He packed his bags every other week after my mum screamed at him for various reasons. Good times in between were special but brief and constantly the cloud of what to come rest above our heads. It was inevitable that I became what I am now. A coward. A runner. A girl who can’t stay long enough to find out.