When I was seven years old, I had a bike. I was still on training wheels, I was embarrassed about that.
I was lonely my mother did not treat me right. I had no friends. I never went out.
I wanted to run away. I stuffed a giant pillow in the basket and pedaled 'till the end of the road.
I hadn't gone past there yet.
What if I did?
I could be free.
But.. had she even noticed I was gone? Did she think I was okay, happy? Did she care at all?
My only use to her was to distract her with my needs. I was a game to play when she was sick of loneliness. She would cling to me, selfishly, desperately. I did not understand why she would weep I did not understand why she would hug me, I was uncomfortable, I disliked her. I wanted her to get away from me. I never felt like she loved me.
Would she had cared at all if I left?
I concluded she wouldn't.
And it was that same conclusion that made me stay. "She wouldn't care if I was gone, what's the point?"
"She doesn't care about me, but I can't survive without her."