"It might be supposed that a catastrophe such as I have just related would have effectively cooled my incipient passion for the sea. On the contrary, I never experienced a more ardent longing for the wild adventures incident to the life of a navigator than within a week after our miraculous deliverance. "— The Narrative of Gordon Pym, Edgar Allan Poe

  My name is John Dark, but my parents call me Johnny. I'm fourteen, and I just had a big argument with them. That's why I'm now wandering in the night, tired of life in this boring, gray city.

  We used to live in a cozy suburban house right next to a forest reservation, and I loved it there: I love the feeling of being one with nature and abandoning myself in wild greenery and primitive contemplation.

  I'm not a person with a good inner compass; I get lost easily, but I always find my way back. I remember zigzagging for hours in random directions and feeling the thrill of the dark night closing in, not knowing if I would get back in time for bed, or if I'd sleep under the stars.

  I don't like big cities with their ever-shining, ever-blinding lights. Even when the sun dims the artificial ones, the reflex from the cars and the overload of man-made artifices managed to still jump to your eyes. I remembered fondly those long summer nights I've spent in the reservation.

  For those who've never been in a forest on a new moon night, you don't really know what true darkness is like. It's a wondrous feeling of absolute mystery, like floating over the ground and haunting the earth on your way back home.

  I miss that feeling, and that's why I fought with my parents. I hate it here – the cold stone, heartless concrete, miles of asphalt, and towering buildings that obscure the sky. I remember crying when, for the first time, I looked up and couldn't see the stars.

  My parents tried to explain that Dad had to take a job here as an office worker (I didn't really pay attention) and that it was a necessary measure to continue affording groceries. I argued that we could to this just fine back home, but they claimed the company nearby had gone bankrupt, and that it was too much a travel for Dad to come back home every day. As if that was excuse enough! Why did Dad not find another line of work, or why didn't mom got one of her own?

  She tried to bribe me with prestigious schools, themed parks, cinemas, and high-tech gadgets, thinking that a high family income was all needed to shush me. She even mentioned the "night's colors," referring to neon signs and LED lights. I would've expected more from the eye of a paintress.

  I don't like how Dad's out all day at the new office, and Mom's got to take care of a million things in her studio instead of being with me. It's like I've disappeared, like the lack of care of the inner city was contagious, and now my parents got it too.

  So I ran away. I'm tired of being here; I prefer being feral in the woods than a worker bee trapped in a honeycomb cell.

  Among the few things I could do from my bedroom, watching TV was probably one of my favorites, especially in the morning. I liked how the news spread terror 24/7, yet nobody seemed to react.

  I wondered what feelings viewers experienced when they heard about another inebriated drunkard stabbing his mother's eyes because she wouldn't buy him another bottle of cheap wine.

  Or the seemingly never-ending stream of babies found in dumpsters, fed to dogs, or brutally smashed against the curb – a grotesque painting of post-modern depravity.

  At least, it was entertaining until I was no longer immune to that unnerving feeling that every passerby could be a budding psychopath, with me as their next victim.

  We would gaze with each stranger at each other with scrutinizing eyes, doubtful, and predatory, like wildcats probing uncharted territory.

  I've been in this neighborhood for two months now, and as an explorer, I know it pretty well. The first thing I did was avoid the avenues as much as I could, because they're so easy to identify – just follow one long enough, and you'll end up in a familiar place.

  They're a bit like the city's rivers.

  I breathed more easily once I escaped the sounds of cars and honking. The narrow streets were far more tranquil, though still with many passersby and cars.

  The city cars were all much uglier and weaker than the pick-up trucks and 4x4s I'm used to. I couldn't help but think that there wasn't a real person inside those polarized windows, but some sort of chrome robot propelled by springs.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Trees grew alongside the street, and weeds along with wildflowers sprouted from the cracks in the tiles, proof of life's tenacity.

  I even observed one little sprout born from the collected dirt in the windshield wipers of an abandoned car, with two little leaves gathering twice the sunlight thanks to the reflexion of the car's sun-shield.

  I turned again, plunging deeper into the city, and the sounds dimmed.

  Then, to my further irritation, I came across another avenue that I recognized was barely fifteen blocks away from my house. I could've sworn I walked longer, but probably backtracked due to all the zigzagging.

  On this avenue that went uphill, three homeless men argued about who'd carry the giant wagon full of wet cardboard, piled so high that the men appeared dwarves in comparison, like a pony pulling a king-sized carriage.

  I passed quickly the avenue and slipped back into the streets, skittering through alleyways and backtracking once or twice due to dead ends.

  Maybe I wouldn't have hated life here quite so much if I'd lived in one of these dead-end alleyways, completely apart from the rest of the city.

  I wished I'd brought one of my books so I could sit and enjoy the place before moving on, but it wasn't the time.

  My favorite story is Arthur Gordon Pym, a dusty book I found in a forgotten box when we were moving out: it's about a person who, just like me, understands that without getting lost, there's no such thing as adventure.

  I always wondered if he ever made it back.

  As I continued, the hours passed, and the lights dimmed. The buildings became abandoned – an ex-industrial area, common in this city. I liked it here; it reminded me of the woods. The broken windows and the creeping vines, twisting around the decades-old metal and penetrating the stone in search of water, a perfect overgrown theme I have grown to love.

  The public lights were mostly dead, as there were almost no neighbors to petition for repairs, and it seemed like the local government only did the minimum. Best for me – I appreciated the greenish moss-covered stones and weird graffiti.

  My anger subsided.

  I realized that people sleep at night, and that the city isn't always overcrowded with subways and buses, yelling salesmen, and bustling streets. It's like the past few months were pure noise inside my head, and this noise made it impossible to think of anything else.

  Then, I heard people yelling on the next block. I couldn't see them, but guessing from their voices, there were four men, adults, and one was terribly drunk. It dawned on me that I was defenseless.

  I wished I had Dad's pocket knife; anyone could do with me whatever, and there was no one to help me!

  I started walking faster. I heard them speaking to a young woman; I thought about going back, but what could I do? I prayed she could handle herself.

  I went back into a nearby avenue, slimmer than the others. But it was also abandoned, with closed shops and drunkards walking in the middle of the road.

  I quickly returned to the streets, took a few turns, and sighed in relief when I heard silence.

  Now, I started looking at signs, trying to get my bearings. But I had no idea what part of the neighborhood I was in. Hours passed, and I was getting thirsty, sleepy, and nervous.

  Where was I?