The Runaway

The Porcelain Mask

The fluorescent lights of the Greyhound bus station hummed with a low-frequency vibration that seemed to rattle my teeth. It was 3:14 AM, the hour of the desperate and the forgotten.

i stand in front of the cracked mirror of the station’s single-stall bathroom, my breath hitching in my chest. On the laminate counter sat a pair of heavy-duty kitchen shears id swiped from my father’s gourmet kitchen just hours before. Beside them lay a pile of dark, mahogany hair—the hair my mother had insisted i grow long, the hair that had been curled and pinned into place for every "Young Debutante" gala and official's dinner.

Snip.

The sound was deafening in the small room. I didn’t look at my face; I looked at the hair falling into the sink like dead leaves. I hacked at it with trembling hands, shorter and shorter, until it sat just below my ears in jagged, uneven layers. I didn't need it to look good; I needed it to look different.

I reached into my backpack, fingers brushing against the cold, thick envelope containing my college fund—eight thousand dollars in cash, withdrawn in small increments over months of planning. I pulled out a cheap bottle of black dye I bought at a gas station three towns back.

As the dye set, > stared at my eyes in the mirror. They were my father’s eyes—alert, calculating, always three steps ahead. But he didn't see this coming, I thought. He thought his perfect daughter was tucked into her silk sheets, dreaming of Ivy League applications.

I rinsed the dye in the cold, rusted sink, the water running like ink down the drain. When I patted my hair dry with a paper towel, a stranger looked back at me. The girl in the mirror was pale, sharp-edged, and unrecognizable.

"Cameron Martenez is dead," i whispered to the empty room. "I’m just... Cameron now."

I shouldered my bag, ensuring the leather journal—the one containing the transcriptions of those mysterious letters—was tucked deep in the hidden pocket. The letters had been my only tether to the truth. For years, they had arrived on my birthday, postmarked from different high-end hotels across the country. My father had always intercepted them, but three years ago, he’d stopped being careful. I had found the last one in his mahogany desk, unopened.

Room 412, The Grand Meridian.

That was the last address. The letters had stopped after that. And three days ago, she had finally figured out why.

The station’s intercom crackled to life, a distorted voice announcing the 3:45 AM departure to the city. I adjusted the collar of my oversized hoodie, pulling it up to hide my neck. I stepped out of the bathroom, my "alert eyes" immediately scanning the room.

Exit A: Two sleeping men, one smelling of stale beer.

Exit B: A security guard leaning against a vending machine, distracted by his phone.

The Ticket Counter: An elderly woman falling asleep over a crossword.

I moved with the silence of a shadow, a skill i'd perfected while sneaking into my father’s office at night. Every muscle was coiled, ready to spring into a sprint if I heard my name called. Every time the sliding doors hissed open, i expected to see my father’s security detail—men in black suits with earpieces—stepping through to reclaim the "prominent official's" most prized possession.

I boarded the bus, choosing a seat in the very back, furthest from the driver and the door. I pressed My forehead against the cold glass, watching the dark silhouette of her hometown disappear.

The bus ride was a blur of highway lights and the rhythmic thumping of tires on pavement. Every time the bus slowed down, My heart rate spiked. I imagined police cruisers pulling the bus over, sirens screaming, my father standing in the middle of the road with that disappointed, terrifying smile of his.

“Control is care, Cameron,” he used to tell me while he reviewed my daily schedule, down to the minute. “The world is chaos. I am simply the wall between you and the storm.”

I gripped the armrest until her knuckles turned white. He wasn't a wall. He was a cage.

As the sun began to bleed over the horizon, the skyline of the city emerged from the haze. It was a jagged forest of steel and glass, a place where eight million people lived and died without ever knowing their neighbor's name. It was the perfect place to disappear.

When the bus finally hissed to a stop at the central terminal, I waited until everyone else had disembarked. I stepped onto the pavement, the air thick with exhaust and the smell of roasting coffee. It was overwhelming. The noise was a physical weight—honking horns, shouting vendors, the screech of the subway beneath my feet.

I felt a wave of paralyzing fear. I was sixteen. I had no ID, no home, and a father who likely had the state police on high alert. My instinct was to turn around, to go back to the safety of the scripted life I knew.

But then she felt the weight of the journal in her bag. I thought of the last letter. “The truth is hidden in the silence,” My father’s handwriting had said. Except it wasn't my father’s handwriting. It was a hand I didn't recognize, written on hotel stationary from a place he claimed he’d never been.

I took a deep breath, my eyes scanning the crowd. I needed a place to stay. Somewhere cheap. Somewhere that didn't ask for a credit card or a parent’s signature.

I walked three blocks before i saw it: a tattered flyer taped to a lamppost.

ROOM FOR RENT. SHARED KITCHEN. CASH ONOY. NO QUESTIONS.

It felt like a trap, or a miracle. In my world, they were usually the same thing. I pulled out my burner phone—one i'd bought with cash weeks ago—and dialed the number.

"Hello?" A voice answered. It was deep, slightly raspy, as if the speaker had just woken up or hadn't spoken in days.

"I'm calling about the room," I said, my voice sounding smaller than i wanted it to. "Is it still available?"

"Yeah," the voice said. There was a pause, the sound of a match striking. "I'm Simon. You're not a cop, are you?"

I almost laughed. "No. I'm... I'm just new here."

"Right. 422 West 14th. Apartment 3C. Bring the first week’s rent. If you’re a serial killer, let me know now so I can cancel my gym membership."

I didn't smile, but I felt a tiny spark of something that wasn't fear. It was the thrill of the unknown.

"I'll be there in ten minutes," I said.

I turned toward the West Side, my eyes already scanning for the next threat, the next exit, and the first clue in the mystery of the man who had stopped sending letters three years ago.

I take a taxi to the apartment, it smelt like old cheese and sweat. the taxi drops my off and waits till im at the door to drive off. Apartment door 3C. I take a deep breath then knock on the door.

No one answers.

I knock again.

"Coming." Simon says from the other side of the door.

I wait outside the door, I hear a crush from the inside. Something that sounds like glass breaking.

"Everything ok?!" I yell through the door.

The door comes tearing open.

"Everything fine, darling." Simon says out of breath. "So your here about the room, eh?"

I look at past him into the apartment and see glass all over the floor and a big dog sitting on the couch.

"Yes I am." I say, slightly regretted coming here.

"Great! Though, You aren't allergic to dogs, right?" Simon says looking back at the dog.

"No im not, dogs just aren't my favorite. After I was attacked by one i sort of developt a fear of them." I say, probably giving him too much information then he ever wanted to know about me. "Back to the apartment though. What would the living situation be like?"

He sighs.

"Im here most of the time. I work 10 to 4 at a restaurant, there's a calendar on the wall." He says. "Wanna come in?"

I nod, feeling like I've talked too much.

He leads me inside. The apartments fairly clean besides the glass on the ground. There's dog toys and a dog bed in the corner, which looks mostly chewed up. The kitchen is small, there's still stuff from breakfast on the counter. Looks like he has frosted flakes for breakfast. The living room is small but liveable. There's a mall three person couch and a chair by the window, next to the dog bed. And a TV above the fireplace. He leads me to my room so I can put my stuff up. It's a small room with a desk and a small closet. The bed is under the double windows. There's white curtains with little blue flowers on them, The bed spread is the same. It's small but homey, and smells of dust, like no ones stepped into the room or cleaned it in a while, and slightly of firewood.

"So, honestly what's your opinion of my fine little home?" Simon asks. His lips tucked in a smirk.

"It's small but homey. It's cute." I tell him.

Simon looks at me with his head titled.

"So what brought you here?"

I stop for a second, how should I answer this. I quickly come up with something.

"Oh just wanted a fresh start.". I say, its not the full truth but also not a lie.

"I feel that. I wish I could just get up and start fresh sometimes." Simon says. He turns away and a shadow passes his face. "Life's hard. If anyone had the choice to get up and start fresh, im sure most people would take it."

"Yeah, sometimes its good to start from scratch but your also not completely starting over because you have all the knowledge you had before, you know?" I say like im just talking to myself. He's so easy to talk to.

"Yeah I know." He says, his brown eyes turning bright again. "First weeks rent?"

I fumble around in my bag, looking for the envelope with the money in it.

I hand it to him and he pockets it.

I wounder if my father's realized I left yet. It's been a few hours. If he has is he looking for me? Does he care?

Me and Simon end up watching a movie. It's called Where The Red Fern Grows.

When the movie ends we got lunch ready.

"What do you want?" He asks me.

"Im ok with anything." I tell him

"Ok then I'll just make mac and cheese." He says.

I get the bowls and forks out, and set it on the table.

"Simon?" I call.

"Yes?" He answers

"How old are you? I realized I never asked." I say.

It takes him a minute to reply.

"Im 22." He says.

22? Im only 16. My dad would freak if he knew I was living with a 22 year old.

"Nice. im 16." I say.

We continue what we were doing. Acting like we've been friends or roommates forever. There's so much about the world i never knew. What it was like to live outside of your parents protection. what it was like to live a life thats your own. It's exhilarating.

The world is so different then i ever could have thought. The trusting, honest world my parents told me about turned into a cruel, harsh one with little kindness.

I lay in bed, looking up at the ceiling wondering what it would be like to be someone else. What it would be like to live a whole other life from the one you know. I wonder what to would be like to just be, without fear or stress. It's my whole reason for wanting to leave in the first place. Where I was made me feel like I was fading or already faded, like the real me was gone and the me that everyone needed and wanted was overtaking me. I felt game and like no one could find me, like they didnt even know to look for me.

I suddenly hear a big thud then a knock. I stand up, out of bed and walk to my bedroom door.

What was that, I think.

It could be Simon but he has a key...

I walk out of my room in my black tank top and shorts. I head for the door.

I hear another knock, I open the door.

There's a man dresses in all black, a black hoodie, black pants and hat. He has dark hair and darker eyes.

He smirks.

"Is Simon here?" The man asks, his voice deep and rough. It breaks through the silence.

"No, he went out. Who are you?" I ask, staring at the man with eyes of caution

"Im Noah.. Simon's friend." Noah says.

Ohh right. Simon said someone was coming over. This must be who.

"Oh right sorry. Come in." I say apologizeicly, leading him inside.

He follows me. We sit on the old leather couch and sit there in silence.