Runaway - Chapter 4

Rain soaked her the second she stumbled outside, cold and merciless. Mary’s eyes locked on the car. The doors had barely finished slamming shut before it lurched forward, tires screeching against the wet pavement. She caught a glimpse of Anthony through the rain-streaked window—his body hunched, shoulders tense, a dark shape between darker ones. One of the men shoved him down harder, and the movement punched the air out of her lungs as if it had happened to her instead.

“No,” she breathed, taking a step forward without realizing it.

The car accelerated, taillights flaring red through the downpour. The rain distorted everything, turning the street into a smeared painting of light and shadow. She stood there helplessly, watching until the shape of the car thinned, until the red dots stretched and finally dissolved into the night.

A sick, hollow pit opened in her stomach.

I grew up in a rough neighborhood. Gangs. Violence.

His words replayed with brutal clarity. The way those men had moved—how easily they had taken control of him, how little effort it had seemed to cost—suddenly made sense. This was the life he’d been trying to outrun, finally catching up to him. Her hand shook around the hot chocolate cup. All she could see was Anthony being forced into that car because of her. Because he had stepped in. Because he hadn’t looked away when he could have.

Saving her from the guys at the gas station.
Running after her with the ticket she almost lost.
Disappearing into the rain just to bring her something warm.
Seeing her face on a missing person poster—and choosing silence.

Her chest tightened painfully. She stared down at the cup as rain spattered into the lid. It was such a small thing. All of it was small things. And yet they sat heavy in her chest.

The rain seemed to grow louder, filling the space where the car had been. The station lights glowed behind her, steady and safe, reflecting off the wet concrete. Warmth. Shelter. Cameras. Walls.

If she went back inside, nothing else would happen to her tonight.

Her feet wouldn’t move.

They felt rooted to the concrete as the sound of rain faded into a dull roar in her ears. Torn wasn’t a strong enough word. It felt more like being split—like two versions of herself were pulling in opposite directions, both convinced the other was about to make a fatal mistake.

One of them wanted safety. Light. Stillness. To disappear into the station and wait until the world passed her by.

The other saw Anthony’s face in the window. Saw his body fold under someone else’s hands. Knew what it meant to be taken somewhere you couldn’t leave.

She thought of everything that had led her here. The choices she hadn’t realized were choices at all. The way running had stopped feeling like motion and started feeling like quicksand.

And then, without warning, her mind slipped backward.

She was five years old.

She was sitting at a small wooden dining table, its surface scarred and sticky, the legs uneven on the warped floor. The house smelled like old food and damp clothes. Light filtered in through a grimy window, turning dust into something almost magical. She held a red crayon in her hand. Green and yellow lay nearby, worn down to nubs.

She was drawing flowers.

Big ones. Petals stretching wide, stems crooked but proud. She hummed quietly to herself, legs swinging beneath the chair.

Footsteps.

Her father appeared in the doorway, his presence filling the room before his voice did. He looked down at the paper, his brow knitting together.

“Are you done drawing the picture of the bedroom?” he asked.

She looked up and smiled weakly. “I wanted to draw flowers instead, Papa.”

Something in his face changed. It happened fast, like a switch snapping into place.

He flipped the table.

The world exploded into motion—crayons skittering, paper fluttering, her chair scraping back as she stumbled to the floor. He was shouting now, words tumbling over one another, loud and sharp and everywhere.

“Why can’t you do what I asked? Do you know how important this is?”

She curled in on herself, hands over her ears, sobs tearing out of her chest. “I’m sorry, Papa,” she cried. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

The shouting stopped.

Silence stretched, thick and terrifying.

She peeked up through her tears. He was breathing hard, chest rising and falling. Then he inhaled deeply. Once. Twice. His shoulders relaxed. He bent down, picked up a clean sheet of paper and a crayon from the floor.

“Draw the bedroom,” he said, voice firm, calm. “Right now.”

Her hands shook as she took the crayon. He flipped his chair straight and sat down across from her. Watching.

She wiped her cheeks with her sleeve and lowered the crayon to the paper.

She closed her eyes—and a sharp metallic clink rang inside her head, like two pieces of metal striking somewhere just behind her ears. The sound lingered, vibrating, hollow and wrong, and the world around her seemed to tilt.

For a moment, she wasn’t at the table anymore.

She was standing in the bedroom.

The air was stale and dim, the curtains half-closed, dust floating in a thin shaft of light. The bed sat against the far wall, its blanket rumpled, the mattress bowed slightly in the middle. A nightstand beside it. A lamp with a crooked shade, leaning just enough to look tired. She could see it all, solid and real, as if she were standing in the room in that moment.

And on the bed—

Boxes.

Six of them, stacked carefully into a triangle. Cardboard edges worn soft, taped seams yellowed with age.

Her hand moved.

She was just copying what was already there. Translating the room back onto the paper in front of her. When her awareness drifted back to the table, the crayon scratched to a stop.

The boxes were on the page.

She stared at them, breath shallow, heart thudding, unsure when her mind had left the room. When she was done, she set the crayon down and pushed the paper toward him with both hands.

He studied it.

Then his face broke into a smile.

“Yes,” he said, delight bleeding into his voice. “Perfect. Perfect.”

He reached out, cupped her face in his large hand, his thumb brushing away the last of her tears. “You did a great job.”

He kissed her forehead and stood, walking away as if nothing had happened at all.

Mary lifted the back of her hand and rubbed at her eyes, trying to wipe away the wetness still clinging to her lashes.

When she pulled her hand back, it was smeared with red.

Not bright. Not fresh. Just a thin, watery streak of blood across her skin.

She stared at it, confused, breath hitching—then lowered her hand quickly, wiping it against her sleeve before he could turn back around.

The memory dissolved.

Mary blinked, rain stinging her eyes, the hot chocolate trembling in her grip.

She understood now, with a clarity that made her chest ache, how long she had been living like that little girl—waiting for permission, drawing what she was told, terrified of choosing wrong.

Behind her, the station waited. Light. Shelter. Stillness.

Ahead of her was the street. Rain. Darkness. The unknown—and the knowledge that someone had been taken into it.

She lifted her gaze from the cup, rain dripping from her lashes, heart pounding, caught between the place she could stay… and the place she might have to go.