the runaway

and when he left, the room looked as it had before he entered. the bed appeared as if it had been untouched, with its sheets still tucked firmly under the mattress, and the blanket still smoothed out. the remote remained in its original position, atop the television surrounded by a layer of dust. if one were to turn it on, it would still be on channel 17, a channel that refused to show anything but static. in the bathroom, the complimentary towels went unused and the soap remained wrapped. the sink continued it's monotonous symphony of drip, drip, drip (a piece that could simply be stopped with a final twist of the tap). a bottle of mouthwash sat beside the sink, it's childproof seal unbroken. there were still 347 squares left in the roll of toilet paper. even a copy of van gogh's "starry night" which hung on the wall beside the window remained a tad crooked, drooping on the left.

the only indication that there was a trace of life in that room on the cold rainy night of August 17th, was a message that he carved in the ceiling above the bed which read:

"i cant find sleep in this fucking town"