The Runaways

Chapter 1: The Everton Escape

Nothing ever really happens in Everton.
It's a small, dreary town in Illinois with a population of just over 300, and home to one traffic light. The town's only bar, Jester's, sits next to its only school building, almost mockingly. The owner of Jester's is an older man named Gary Yelchin, who often falls victim to fake ID's and stolen Budweiser shipments. I'd personally met Yelchin only once before, when he'd attempted to charm my Mother, which was horribly uncomfortable to watch. Only now, as I stand before him, his eyes were no longer filled with unwavering lust—but with pure and indiscernible rage.

Earlier that day, I sat idly by the train tracks on the west side of town, hoping to see a freight train or two. The chilly spring breeze blew through the leafless trees and softly brushed my skin, causing my teeth to chatter and turning my cheeks a rosy pink. I adjusted the green winter coat I was wearing and rubbed at my runny nose.
The third freight train of the day had just run through, leaving a peaceful silence in its wake. I'd decided to skip school, making it my eleventh consecutive absent day and rendering my last semester of senior year uncredited. But honestly, I didn't care. Not really. I was never really one for high school, anyway. The train tracks were a great place to think, to sort out my thoughts—much better than AP Physics, where I was subjected to listen to Mr. Taylor drone on about equations I already knew the answers to.
Recently, I'd decided that I wanted to quit school. I found it boring and, frankly, unimportant in the grand scale of things. I figured that I'd find my way in life, in my own way, on my own time. There had to be something else out there, something more than a nine to five office job with my own personal cubicle. On top of that, there was no one in the entirety of the very bleak town of Everton that I could really talk to, hang out with, or relate to. It wasn't anyone's fault or anything, but because I'd always been a bit wiser than my years and therefore wiser than most kids my age, I'd always been kind of a loner. All I knew was that this life that I wanted, whatever it was, was definitely not going to be in this town.
At around 4 o'clock, I'd decided to head home. Since it was still early March, the night came much quicker than I preferred, which always resulted in me suffering from Winter depression; then again, it was always depressing in Everton. One of the town's many charms, I guess.
Once I was about two blocks from my neighborhood, a few guys from my class spotted me on my way. They paused their two-on-two pickup basketball game and called out to me.
"Yo, Westin! Where you been, man?" Scotty Tester shouted, waving his long, lanky arms in the air. Scotty and I were more acquaintances than friends, but we were friendly enough. He was a tall, skinny kid with hair so blonde that it was practically white. The rest of the guys I recognized, but couldn't recall their names.
I nodded in acknowledgment and called back, "Nowhere! Just haven't felt like going to school's all!"
Of course, that wasn't true. I could never have explained to them in full depth why I enjoyed the quiet of the train tracks, nor could I tell them of my hopes for the future. I genuinely don't know if they could've comprehended anything I was thinking.
One of the other boys laughed and said, "Well Packer was pissed!" He was referring to Harrison Packer, the Principle. He was a short, stout man with greying black hair, which he continuously insisted on dying.
"Yeah!" Another boy shouted, "He asked the entire class about you!"
Then Scotty added, "The asshole called your mom!"
I stopped walking at that. For a moment I had to process what he'd said, then I asked, "What do you mean?"
"Yeah, he called your mom! I overheard him when I went to the office to make copies!" He explained with a shrug.
I hadn't expected that. Packer knew my Mother, and he knew that she wasn't exactly all-there anymore, so why call her? I had to think for a moment before I came to a rough conclusion.
Packer had never been a fan of me due to my, "indifferent and positively disrespectful" attitude (as he so eloquently put it), so something told me that he might've done this with malicious intent—but I wasn't sure what he'd said to her. I suddenly got a sinking feeling that something wasn't right.
I had to get home. I took off and ran the rest of the way back, breathing heavy as I reached the front door. My palms were clammy, heart pounding in my ears, and flannel drenched with sweat. As I entered the house, I was greeted by the odor of alcohol and marijuana which, sadly, wasn't unusual. The house itself wasn't a wreck; in fact, if you were born without your sense of smell, you might've even considered it homey. Of course, the house was so clean because I was always picking up after Mom. And it wasn't big by any means, but it was a cute house with wooden floors and a classic interior design.
I was taken off-guard when I spotted my Mom on the couch in the living room. She was always either passed out or gone for a drink at Jester's. Regardless, she looked totally enraged.
"Why did I get a call from Harrison Packer?" She asked, her voice a low growl.
I didn't respond right away. Instead, I took a moment to look at her—I mean really look at her. Once upon a time, my Mother was beautiful. Now, she looked tired. Tired, weak, and so, so sad. Her brown hair was tangled and unkempt, skin pale, and eyes void of any kind of happiness. She wasn't a tall woman, but she wasn't necessarily short, either; and she'd never been petite. But now, standing at 5 foot 6 inches, she looked to be around ninety pounds, and it was incredibly alarming. But what was most alarming were the several scabs that ran up and down her arms, some on her hands, and a couple on her shoulders.
"Mom, what are those?" I asked, slowly walking around the loveseat to reach her where she sat on the couch. "What have you been do—"
"Jesus Christ! Why the hell do you have eleven absences?! Do you have any idea how humiliating it was to have Harrison Packer call and tell me that my son isn't going to be graduating this year?!" She yelled, completely hysterical. She rose from the couch and paced back and forth, clutching her hair.
"That's not important right now, what are those scabs on your arms?" I asked calmly, taking a step closer.
"I can't believe this! All you had to do was fucking graduate! You would've been gone! Now you're here for another year!" She was screaming now, clutching her hair tighter in her fists and clenching her teeth.
I tried not to listen to what she was saying, tried to block it out, but deep down, I knew that was how she truly felt about me—no matter how doped up she was. I wasn't exactly sure what to do or how to react, either, because she'd never been so... frantic before. Sure, she'd been cold and bitter, but never like this.
"If you're here, he'll never come back," She murmured, more to herself than anything, though it was still audible enough for me to hear it. I assumed she was referring to my Father, who took off on us when I was around five. As far as I know, he couldn't handle the responsibility of being a father as well as he'd originally thought he could. At least, that was what the people in town said.
But Mom didn't care about me, about what happened to me. She just wanted me gone, because to her, I was nothing more than a nuisance, the reminder of a horrible memory.
"Mom," I called, placing a gentle hand on her scab-covered left arm.
She snapped her head to face me, giving me a closer view of her clenched teeth. Her breath was awful, like she hadn't brushed her teeth in weeks, and her teeth—they were yellow, some rotting. It suddenly became so obvious to me what was happening that I gasped aloud.
She was doing methamphetamines.
"Don't touch me," She barked, slapping my hand away.
"Please, Mom," I pleaded, voice quivering and barely above a whisper. I suddenly had the strong urge to cry, like all the pent up emotions I had were suddenly and shamelessly spilling out into one big swirling pool of nothingness. "What the hell did Packer say to you?"
Mom paused for a moment, like she'd abruptly been cured of her hysteria and was finally beginning to hear me, although it was for the entirely wrong reason.
"It's all the same, all the same..." She mumbled, slowly releasing the grip she had on her hair until her arms hung limply at her sides.
"What's all the same?" I asked as I reached my hand out to touch her shoulder in an attempt to comfort, but ended up freezing awkwardly in mid-air when I remembered how she'd reacted previously.
"Everything! Everything Harrison Packer says, everything everyone says is always the same! 'He doesn't want you anymore' and 'You could never raise a child alone' and 'You're not good enough for him'! I never asked for this, I never asked for you!"
I couldn't—or didn't want—to believe what I was hearing. I also couldn't believe Packer'd gone this far just to spite me.
I didn't realize that I was actually crying until I felt a tear drop on my hand, and in turn, discovered that my cheeks were soaked with my tears.
"Your fault!" She screeched, grabbing the collar of my flannel. "This is all your fault! It's your fault he left, it's your fault he doesn't want me anymore! Get out! Get out of this house! Get out of my life!" She yelled at the top of her lungs, her voice shrill. It was clear that everything that she'd felt since the day my Dad had left was coming to light, all at once, in the worst possible way.
However, as crazy as it sounds, I wanted to stay. I wanted to help. Even if she hated me, even if she was kicking me out, even if she blamed me for all of the misfortune and turmoil in her life, I wanted to help her get better. If nothing changed, if no one was here to help her, she was going to die. My Mom was going to die.
"Mom, y-you don't know what you're saying, you're, you, you don't—"
She slapped me across the face, hard. She slapped me so hard that there would be a bruise later.
"Get," She breathed, seething with anger and sadness and agony. "out."
We stood and stared at one another for a moment. I wondered if she knew that she was going to die. I wondered if someone could help her if I left, if I could tell someone to take care of her because I couldn't, or more accurately, she wouldn't let me. Then I realized that she probably wouldn't let anyone else help her, either, and that if she didn't want help, she wouldn't get any. And she'd intended it to be that way. She intended to die.
She wanted to die.
Shortly after that, I went to my room and packed my essential belongings in my backpack. As I was passing the living room on my way out, my Mother hadn't left the position she was in; she was still standing in the middle of the room, hands limp at her sides and her face contorted in anger.
As I opened the front door, I turned to look at her. She did not move. I wanted so badly to say something, although I had no idea what.
Instead, I looked away, held back a sob, and closed the door behind me.
It was late evening now, and the sun was barely peeking out from behind the different houses and trees, its last glimmer of pink and purple hue beginning to fade into a star-covered nightfall.
I wasn't quite sure where to go. I didn't have any close friends of my own, none who I'd feel comfortable staying with and none who would take me in comfortably. I thought of sleeping on a park bench, but remembered that druggies hung out at the park at night, and I didn't want to be harassed or asked about my Mom. I thought about sneaking into the school and sleeping in the nurse's office, but I had no way of setting an alarm to leave before anyone knew I was there, so that was out, too.
I wasn't crying anymore, although I felt as if I could cry for days, weeks, even months. Perhaps it was because I was so incredibly filled with grief, or maybe it was the stress of not having anywhere to sleep, or possibly it could've been that I didn't want to think about anything; regardless of my reasoning, I needed a drink. And I was going to get one.
There were two main sources of alcohol in town: it's only sole gas station, and Jester's. Of course, at eighteen years old, I was technically underage, but that of course never stopped anyone.
All of my previous classmates knew that Jester's kept their most recent shipments in the staff room behind the bar, which was accessible through a door at the back of the building.
As I arrived, I made sure to crouch down to avoid the several windows, cringing each time my heavy backpack made a noise as my feet shifted. Of course, it didn't help that I was very likely to stand out, what with my full head of curly brown hair and 6 foot 3 inch stature.
I managed to make it to the staff room's door and tried twisting the doorknob, to no avail. It was locked. I was a couple minutes into thinking up a way to pick the lock when someone suddenly walked out to throw away a couple garbage bags. I was able to lay flat against the wall of the building and stay hidden in the shadows long enough for them to head back inside, managing to catch the door as it was just about to shut again. I snuck in and quietly closed it behind me, the noise of the Thursday night drinkers masking any noise that I might've made.
The room was filled with an assortment of Budweiser, and although it wasn't my favorite brand, I tore one of the boxes open and grabbed a can, cringing when the loud pop of the tab being opened echoed throughout the room. As fast as I could, I chugged that can down and was on to my second beer, then my third.
By my fourth beer, I began to feel tipsy and became less aware of what was happening around me. I'd never had the best tolerance.
    Suddenly I heard footsteps heading toward the room from behind the door, which lead to the main bar. I looked for somewhere to hide, but the boxes weren't stacked high enough to conceal myself, so I headed out the same door I came in from.
As I ran back toward the street, I thought I'd gotten away before anyone had spotted me when I heard a gravelly voice yell from behind me, "Hey! Hey, you!"
Stupidly in my drunken state, I turned to face a furious Gary Yelchin; a man of average height with quite a significant beer belly, which was the result of owning the only bar in a small town full of rednecks.
"Wait, I know you," He said, stopping. "You're Evelyn's kid, ain't ya?"
Evelyn was my Mother's name, and Yelchin had this very odd obsession with her, which had been developing for years.
When I didn't reply, he showed an evil, crooked, yellow smile. "Well," He started, "This'll give me no greater pleasure."
He reached behind his back for something with that same crooked smile, slowly pulling out a kitchen knife from the waistband of his jeans. My eyes widened.
I took off down the road in a sprint as soon as he took his first step forward. He was shouting random, empty threats as I kept my focus on trying to simultaneously haul my heavy backpack as well as fighting off the urge to vomit. I didn't know where I was running to, and I didn't know how long Yelchin planned to chase me, or if in fact his intent was to actually kill me. I doubted that he'd go as far as to kill me, but I didn't want to take any chances, either.
With how out of shape Yelchin was, I was confident that I could out run him; then again, I was still slightly intoxicated and he was clearly out for whatever revenge he could seek for the sole fact that my Mother had no eyes for anyone but my long-lost Father, and I was the closest thing he could get.
We'd had to have run at least a half mile when Yelchin shouted a few meters behind me, "You and your drunk, cracked-up Mother have more in common than I thought!"
I thought that was an oddly witty insult for Yelchin, but I couldn't ask him to elaborate without wasting my breath and risking a possible slow.
He spoke again. "You're both nothin' but washed up, low-life bottom feeders!"
That's when I heard it: a train whistle blowing. I hadn't realized how close we were to the tracks until then. I didn't hesitate. I ran as fast as my legs could carry me in the moment with a sudden spark of hope, which was foreign to me.
I glanced quickly behind me to see how close Yelchin was. He was gaining ground faster now, but I had home court advantage. I ran through the familiar array of trees, making sure to run more to the right rather than straight forward. Once I'd made it to the tracks, I spotted Yelchin still trying to weave his way through to me.
The train was almost to me now. If I timed it right, I could flee unharmed.
Yelchin was getting closer. I began to run in the direction the train was moving in hopes of buying myself some time. The train was almost within reach.
"You're dead, kid!" Yelchin wailed behind me. I couldn't exactly tell how far he was from me, but I knew I only had a few seconds left.
I was breathing quite heavily now, each breath visible in the cold weather. The freight train quickly whirled past me.
Not yet, not yet.
I glanced over my shoulder at Yelchin. He was about six feet from me now.
Not quite yet...
An open box car was but a few yards behind Yelchin and almost within my reach.
Yelchin grunted and swung his knife through the air. He missed me.
The box car was a few feet away.
Yelchin swung again. He'd slashed one of my backpack's pockets.
Not yet... Almost...
Now!
I grabbed the rusty steel handle bar by the box car and attempted to get my footing. My foot missed the landing the first time. The second time, I was able to slam my right foot onto the wooden floor of the car and attempted to use my upper body to pull myself the rest of the way in.
Yelchin was able to swing only once more. This time, he sliced through my Levi's, leaving a gash on my left calf.
With the rest of the strength I had left, I pulled myself into the car and ended up somersaulting. I landed on my stomach, my body flung out and settled like a corpse outline in a crime scene. One of my backpack straps had fallen from my shoulder, so I moved it back up and slowly pushed myself onto my hands and knees.
My black converse were covered in mud, and there was a blood stain forming on my Levi's. I rubbed at the back of my neck, which was sore from running, and looked forward at the many trees zipping past.
Slowly, I scooted forward to get a better look at the night. I caught a glimpse of a few familiar buildings: the gas station, the high school, Jester's—and, finally, my house. I watched it grow smaller and smaller as the train passed, for what I thought would be my last time seeing it.
Abruptly, we passed the city limit sign, which seemed to glow brighter than any of the stars in the sky.
I'd gotten out. I'd really gotten out of Everton.
I took the straps of my backpack off and carefully placed it in a corner of the car where I knew it wouldn't fall out. Then, I rested my back against one of the steel walls and enjoyed the way the cool night air fanned my flushed cheeks.
I checked my watch. It read 6:47.
Ordinarily, I fell asleep some time between eleven and midnight, but with the evening's events, there was nothing more I wanted than to close my eyes and drift off into slumber. Maybe because I was still in shock, and maybe adrenaline was still coursing through me, but I felt an odd sense of neutrality. I felt at peace, like all of the heaviness, all of the strife, all of the pain, it was gone—just for a moment.
My peace was interrupted by a tired voice.
"Who the hell are you?"