Harrington 4

All the Young Punks

The police station in Cincinnati is a lot busier than the one in Hawkins. That's the first thing that I notice as I'm dragged roughly through it, past all the other inmates and around to the back, where I'm shoved into an empty holding cell and left with my thoughts.

I take a seat on the bench, reclining as best as I can against the cold stone wall and tapping the toe of my sneaker on the concrete floor. I feel strangely calm, even with the near death experience and promise of upcoming inconvenience. If you told me nine months ago that I'd be thrown in a jail cell within the next year, I probably would've believed you. I knew my place in this city after only one night. I figured this is where I'd end up.

<Flashback>

Phil Denver, Social Services has to be the least exciting person I've been forced to endure a three hour car ride with. Though I supposed I haven't been the greatest company either.

After numbly packing a suitcase with as many things as I could, I got into the man's car and we began the drive out of Hawkins and to Ohio, leaving everything I've ever known behind. At first, I didn't feel much of anything. I sat and watched the town that I grew up in pass me by, and my mind remained caught between thoughts.

And then the back of the "Welcome to Hawkins" sign that still reads "Welcome to Hell" from when I spray painted it during my Steve Stage came into view. I saw that sign, and a pit in my stomach began to form.

"We have to go back," I said to Phil, who glanced over at me.

"What, did you forget something?"

"No, I — I have to go back," I responded, beginning to panic. "My friends — my family — I can't just—"

"Look, Elizabeth—"

"Liz."

"—you'll have a new family soon enough." Phil smiled, as if we were talking of the newest celebrity news. "The Cincinnati Girls' Home offers the best relocation East of Colorado. You'll forget all about Hawkins in no time."

"Take me back," I said firmly.

"I'm sorry, but I can't do that."

"Take me back."

Phil looked over at me with a frown. "No."

I grabbed the steering wheel, crazed with some strange emotion that I couldn't name, and swerved it hard to the left. Phil yelled as we turned, narrowly missing a truck and ending up sailing into the bushes that lined the road. The Hawkins sign sat just three metres ahead.

And that's how I ended up exiled to the back seat, staring at my own face in the rear view mirror as I cry the most I've cried since my mom first left me. And now she's the reason I'm crying again.

How can I just be leaving everyone, running away like a coward? My stomach burns with self-hatred. The pit grows, nudging at my organs, trying to create more room. For two hours, I curl up against the window and bawl my eyes out, hoping that Phil will have mercy and take me back home. But he doesn't; he doesn't even put on any music to drown out my sobs.

Cincinnati is a tall, compact city that looks dirty even from a distance. The minute it comes into view, the reality of it all hits me. The pit hardens to concrete around my heart, my tears dry, and my mind wipes any reminder of what I've lost and what I'm leaving. If I want to survive here, I need to leave my old self behind.

We drive ten minutes into the city before Phil pulls over next to a run down old building and turns around to grin at me.

"We're here."