The Runaway

Chapter 2 Ripley Harley 

   My face disappears in front of me as I hold the plastic card between my index finger and thumb. Hot plastic drips into the metal garbage can, the last part of my previous life melting into a pool at the bottom. 

  My new ID, social security card, and birth certificate sit in the middle of the dilapidated press board table. The motel I’m calling home for the foreseeable future smells like feet and cigarettes and the noise from I-95 makes the single pane barred windows shudder with every car that passes, but it’s better than where I was. A mask of red hair dye sits on top of my head and the mixture makes my scalp itch and I try my best not to scratch it. I don’t need the flaming crimson color underneath my fingernails tomorrow when I go look for a job. 

  A job. The concept isn’t one I’ve ever thought about. As a Beretta, I never needed one, my father took care of everything. I have no skills outside of shopping and Italian cooking, maybe some Italian restaurant needs someone to purchase their groceries, the thought makes me laugh out loud. Me, walking the streets, just another face in the crowd, picking out ripe San Marzanos for the sugo.

  You may ask yourself, Ripley, how did you get yourself into this predicament? How did you end up in a scuzzy motel instead of the brownstone you’ve lived in your entire life? Why did you run away from a future that was so solid it could have been etched into your tombstone? 

    Him. My father arranged my marriage before I was conceived. I'm pretty sure the moment they found out I was going to be a girl he already had potential suitors clamoring at the door. The problem wasn’t the arranged marriage, even though it was straight out of the 1800’s, barbaric andchauvinistic as fuck. No, the problem was the man they arranged for me to marry. A ‘man’ who had no issue “putting women in line”. He was fifteen years older than me and belonged to one of the most prestigious families in Boston, he also had a terrible temper and a drinking problem. 

 “Don’t make him angry and you’ll have nothing to worry about.” My mother told me on my eighteenth birthday six months ago. In what universe is that a reasonable thing to say to someone who’s about to get married? Be the perfect wife and he won’t smack you across the table for the pasta being over cooked. Overcooked pasta? Pshh. I haven’t overcooked pasta since I was a toddler. Pasta flows through these Italian veins just as much as my blood.

  One thing I knew for certain is that I would not be just another deal for my father, if he had any compassion, he would have found me someone in my own age group, not someone old enough to be my father. I would watch other girls my age laughing and enjoying time with men that were age appropriate, envious of their lives I decided that I would forge my own future.

  I threw my phone out of the taxi window somewhere between my parents' estate and this hell hole. I left my car and ninety percent of my belongings in my room, with the over-priced wedding dress hanging on the hook next to my bathroom. Yes, you heard that right…wedding dress. Tomorrow, I glance at the clock, today is my wedding day. In a few short hours my mother will walk into my room to wake me up for the big day. I'd love to see the look on all of their faces when they realize the perfect future they curated for me completely falls apart. Serves them right, vaffanculo!

   Realizing the time I make my way to the bathroom, flicking the light, reminding me of the shitty ass room I'm in. The yellow walls are nearly brown from filth, sending a shiver through me. Nasty motels were never something I thought about before, not when I had five star hotels at my fingertips. 

   The mirror shows my reflection, the reminder of my father staring at me, well kind of. I share his eyes, but my hair, it won't be like his, not anymore. Turning away, I grip the shower faucet and let the water cascade down until it's warm. Too hot and it'll damage the perfect color I've chosen for my new identity. 

  After the shower, I look down at the tub, seeing the stains I've left behind. The 1980s hair dryer that's attached to the wall, forcing a laugh out of me. Hopefully that damn thing still works and I don't end my runaway in a hospital from behind electrocuted. Surprisingly, it works like it's brand new. I've perfected giving myself a salon-like blowout, so as I work the round brush and dryer I do just that. 

  I should probably sleep, after all I've been up since six in the morning yesterday. Finally, I’ve managed to get away from them, away from him. Not bad if I do say so myself, especially after everything I've been through. 

  Tucking myself into bed, I do everything in my power to not think about all of the things that could be in this bed with me, or the things that have happened on this bed. No, don't go there, I don't have time to dwell on what could be. Not while I'm trying to reinvent myself. 

   Clicking the television on, I try to find something that's not an infomercial, reruns of Judge Judy, from back before she started going gray. A yawn splits my face and my eyes suddenly feel so heavy, pulling me into a dreamless sleep. 

  Panic fills me and I snap awake, sitting up in the bed the stench of stale cigarettes and sex hangs in the air. Slamming reality back into my brain, the skeevy motel walls greet me and after a quick glance at the clock, I realized I've slept in far too late. Dammit. I fling the blanket off me and rush to get ready for the day. Clutching the brand new Gucci purse in my hands, I leave to find my way to the nearest pawn shop. 

   When a person leaves behind almost everything they own, you take the most valuable things both sentimental and financial, the picture of you and your best friend from middle school, the diamond earrings your father gave you for your thirteenth birthday. Because nothing says you're entering womanhood like a pair of sparkly rocks to put in your ears. 

   The walk to the pawn shop was nothing, well if you count six blocks in one direction only to learn that you took a wrong turn and proceeded to head in the opposite direction, nothing. What's a little exercise for a spoiled former mafia princess who is used to being chauffeured around her whole life. My legs burn as the pawn shop sign blinks over my head. 

   Rolling my eyes I push the heavy door open, the sound of a bell rings above me. "Afternoon." The grubby man behind the counter says as he scratches his balding head. Even though he's combed his hair over to try and hide it. Jokes on you man, you aren't fooling anyone. 

  "How much for these?" I ask as I pull out the two gold chains and a watch my father also gifted me from my pocket. They clank against the glass display case and he lifts the chain. He studies them carefully, looking from them to me like he’s not sure how someone like me would have these. 

"How much?" I state as he fumbles with the chains. I have more to sell, but I don't want to unload them all at the same pawn shop. I don’t need to leave a trail for my fathers henchman. 

  "Five hundred." He states plainly with a smirk on his lips. Five hundred wouldn’t even buy one of those chains and he knows that. Do I have room to argue? 

   "A thousand." I reply, even though those three items retail for well over three thousand. 

  "Fine. Are you pawning or selling?" He cocks an eyebrow. 

   "Selling. You can make your money back easily and you know it." My arms cross over my chest, trying my best not to be suspicious about them. 

   He writes out a receipt and I sign away my right to the jewelry. Once we're both done, he takes the items and hands me the money. "Thanks." I count it out on the counter in front of him, even though I had just watched him do it. When I'm satisfied, I load the money into my wallet and make my way out to find the next pawn shop. 

   The street is busy, and I'm glad to be a no-one here. Taking two steps I smile and then stop, a light nearly blinds me. Blinking quickly, I look around and notice a man standing in front of a business. The Fox Hole. The silver necklace gleams from the sun catching my attention. 

  When he opens the door, I catch myself craning my neck to see inside. Then I spot it, the white and red sign. Help Wanted. I need a job, and they need a body. Without second guessing my actions, I cross the street, weaving through the cars caught in traffic, step onto the sidewalk, and wrap my fingers around the handle. With a deep breath, I release any anxiety that might try to make itself known and plaster a shit eating grin on my face and prepare myself to swoon the owner so I can get myself a job.