One-Hundred and Fifty Kilometres From Home - 86%
When it came to school, the boy was essentially clueless. He knew nothing about mathematics, science, business. His marks reflected, poorly, the fact that he was an idiot. His passing marks were a result of his hard work and his effort, but had nothing to do with his knowledge. He scraped by, because the teachers saw how hard he tried, and they felt pity on him. School was not his strong point.
He was a runner. An endurance runner. Being a weak boy when it came to upper-body strength, he made up for it with his talent at moving fast. A light-weight body helped. A member of the cross-country running team, he knew how to run through forests, up hills, across small rivers and green fields. He took comfort in ignoring the whole world, and just running. But that's not what people saw, when they looked at him.
His nickname, given to him by others, was crazy. It was not given in jest, or meant to be kind in any way. People honestly believed that he was crazy. Maybe it was his electric blonde hair, which he had purchased for a mere twelve dollars at the local Shoppers Drug Mart. Perhaps it was the fact that he avoided blinking whenever possible, giving his eyes the cold, calculating look of a bird of prey. Or it could have even been his beard, of considerable length, which he had grown despite his young age. He certainly had done nothing to earn this cruel appellation, but if people were going to call him crazy, he was going to act crazy. Insane, even. Shakespeare once conveyed the message that a rose by any other name would still smell as sweetly. After all, what's in a name? But this boy, who had studied Shakespeare a fair bit in his short life, took the name to heart, all the same.
He was one-hundred and fifty kilometres from home, and he felt completely alone. Friendless. He was a city-dweller living in town that was much too small. This was not his first time away from home. In fact, he had just spent two weeks as a camp counselor for musically inclined children. But this was different. He was all ready an outcast, and he hadn't even been 'home' for twenty four hours. His new home, decorated haphazardly, was not a very pretty sight. A torn Korn poster hung at a slight angle, over the yellow brick wall. His computer sat in the corner, with it's oversized monitor taking up a great deal of his deskspace. His books, which all slid down to one side, were the type of books that he enjoyed: Harry Potter, Lord of the Flies, Firestarter, Romeo and Juliet. A long, and heavy, industrial chain, hung off of the wall, from where it had been taped up.
He sighed, as he slowly poured a large sum of vodka into a neon orange plastic cup, and watched as it mixed in with the Coke. It had been easy enough to obtain the bottle from the nearby LCBO. After a twenty minute bicycle ride, he had simply walked in, paid in cash, and walked out, with bottle in hand and an extra Air Mile added to his account. He didn't normally take solice in the drink, and he had never drank alone before. But nobody wants to drink with a freak. He smiled sadly, for he knew exactly what this year would have in store for him. He could practically taste the pain and suffering, that he would endure from this new microcosm, and he tried to cleanse his mouth of this sour thought as he took his shot. "Ughh. That's too strong."
who the hell is luke perry..? was he on dawson's river?