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As a little kid, and up through my early teens, I never tried to get
"even" with my parents in quite the same way as my friends. While they were
busy planning to run away, thinking that they would, in the words of one friend,
"show them, they'll be sad when I'm gone and then they'll see that they
shouldn't have treated me so awfully!" No, I never seriously considered
running away from home, at least not as a form of retribution; I did something
a bit different.
I faked my own death.
When I was really little is was sort of hard to
do. Once I held my breath and turned blue and fainted on the bathroom
floor where I knew my mother would quickly find me, another time I made it look
like I had fallen out of a tree and lay on the ground with ketchup on my
hair, and the last time I got *really* elaborate. I took an old, large
knife that was missing half its length and pushed the broken end with the
hilt into a thin board so that it stuck out perpendicular to it. Then I
used a little duct tape to secure the board to my chest and put an old
shirt over it all, making a hole in the chest for the knife to stick out
of. Then I smeared the knife, the shirt, and my hand in fake blood and
lay on the floor clutching a suicide note. I lay there for several hours
before my parents got home, but as I lay there listening to them moving
around the house I realized that I was really tired of laying on the hard
wood floor and that getting back at my parents didn't really matter to
me that much; so I got up, washed myself off, scrubbed the blood off the floor,
and hid the knife &c under my dresser.
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