I’ve seen many runaways in my years of being a cop, but this one was different. When you see a boy trying to leave with a bag bigger than himself it really changes you. It was a typical Tuesday mornin’, I was getting ready to get my mornin’ cup o’ Joe when I stumbled across a bindle outside the men’s bathroom. I figured a homeless person was sleeping here so I waiting for him to get out since the diner is private property. Five minutes later he walked out. You see, I wasn’t expecting a young, well dressed boy to walk out. His eyes were focused on the ground, almost if he was too afraid of something or of someone. He looked up and my heart sunk. His soft blue eyes, one bruised. Where did this boy come from? Who would do such a thing to him? I wanted to grab him and tell him, “Everything is going to be alright,” but I couldn’t scare him anymore than he already was. I picked up his bindle and we walked to the counter of the diner. I bought warm pancakes and a hot chocolate for him
He didn’t talk for a while, but I never forced him to say anything. I could tell he had been through a lot. After we finished breakfast, he began to talk to me. His name was Peter. He explained that he couldn’t return home because he was afraid of his father. It was at that moment when I truly connected with him.
I remember when I was eight, I used to stare at the clock. I would watch as each minute passed by, knowing that soon it would be 6:00 PM. It was at that time every day when my father came home. The slightest problems at work my dad would take out on me. I remember debating whether I should leave everyday, but I knew doing so would only hurt my little brother. If I left, my father would only take it out on him even more. When I was 16, he committed suicide and I knew I would become a cop to try to help anybody at their breaking point. He wrote to me before he left, saying that he did it because he “needed love from our mom and dad”
I don’t like to talk about my parents because they were never real parents to me. I remember when I went to school how my friends used to complain how their parents were the worst because they wouldn’t let them go to a game or watch a movie and I used to just sit there silently, I never said a word because my dad taught me that if I said anything I would pay for it. I used to hide all my scratches and all my bruises, trying to convince my teachers that I fell. They never believed me, but they never complained about it. I was left secluded and I had to turn my life around. Maybe if I had said something to them directly, everything would have been okay. Maybe I would still have a brother. Now here Peter was, doing what I was never able to do. Whether he knew it or not, he was saving himself. I knew that this little boy in front of me had more courage saying something to me than I ever had in my life.
I took Peter by the hand and we left. I walked him to my old tree house my brother and I built when we needed to get away from reality. It was abandoned now, some of the wood falling apart and the tree completely lifeless. I felt the cool fall wind blowing against my arms as I gave him my jacket. Though the sleeves were twice the length of his arms, he seemed to fit perfectly. It seemed as if he was meant to have the jacket. I knew he could sense it too. We sat together and talked about everything that came to mind and for a minute it almost seemed like I had my brother back.