Young Writers Society

It was a gorgeous day in Southern California, driving down the aquamarine ocean front, peoplewatching, and sipping on a refreshing and energizing iced coffee. A woman roller skates by with her tiny Chihuahua in tow, pulling at the leash when a new person walks by, and bicyclists pedal on, weaving through the cars, people fast walk down the beach, kicking up sand as they go, while others meander along and enjoy the beautiful view, and the occasional tourist snaps a photo of their family and friends with the glistening ocean behind them. It is just an ordinary day here in Dana Point.

Yet as the day goes on the sky gets darker and darker, almost as if to forewarn of the sadness to come. As the clock strikes three in the afternoon, it pours. Sheets of rain fall from the sky and thunder cries out from below. People run for shelter, not expecting the weather change despite the deep gray colored sky. I step out from inside the mouth of an alley where I had taken shelter, dressed in all black. My fire-engine red hair is mostly hidden beneath my dark hood and my pale skin is only revealed from my hands and face. My backpack is cloaked in the darkness as well, containing some food and water and a change of clothes. I am running away. Home has become unbearable therefore I have taken it upon myself to leave and never go back. I do not have anywhere to go and I am left to my own devices.

As I run underneath the crying sky, being swift to make it to the next covering, I ponder my plans for the night, ‘Where will I stay? What if I get myself into a frightening situation?’ My mind runs rampant with overwhelming, horrifying possibilities. I pause beneath a store front awning, trying to plan my next move. I decide to camp out on the beach tonight, beneath the bridge. The rain has slowed to a drizzle now and as I cross the street to reach my destination for the night I slow my pace. I hesitantly peer around the bridge, suddenly fearful for what, or rather whom, I might find. My eyes dart around, trying to search every inch of space before heading below. A dark mass is found near the opposite side, in a corner, its huddled form is moving slightly as if it is breathing. Straining my eyes, I realize it is a person! I gasp in terror.

Unbeknownst to me, the person heard my muffled gasp and the form stilled momentarily. However my mind was racing and not paying attention to my surroundings anymore. I had to find a way to get out but my body was frozen, paralyzed in horror.

“Who goes there?” I heard a deep voice ask, bringing me back to reality.

A blood curdling scream comes from somewhere nearby, and out of nowhere I am being grabbed. Realization sets in that the scream came out my mouth and the hand covering my mouth belongs to the once huddled over figure in the corner. With wide open grey-blue eyes, I look up from the hand to the face of the person it belongs to. An older man, in his late forties with graying hair and tan, freckled, wrinkled skin, green eyes, and of a tall stature, appears to be the one the hand belongs too.

He looks into my terror filled eyes and says, “I’m going to take my hand off now, but you cannot shout out again. I mean no harm.”

Hesitantly he slowly removes his hand from my mouth and backs away with hands raised. I make no sounds, nor do I move.

Barely able to find my voice, I stutter out, “W-w-w-what are you g-going to do with m-m-me?”

The man shakes his head and quietly says, “I am just staying here for a bit and I don’t want any more unnecessary attention. As I said before, I mean no harm.”

He cautiously, as if to not frighten me, lowers his hands back down to his sides. My eyes go back to normal, no longer as scared, but still on red alert.

I notice him looking at me questioningly, and with sudden confidence I manage to ask menacingly, “What are you looking at?”

Instead of answering my question he asks, “What is a young lady, like yourself, doing out in the middle of the night wandering about?”

“It is none of your business!” I all too hastily shout out.

With raised eyebrows he questions me yet again, “Are you on the run?” He quickly adds, “I don’t want no rebellious little teenager running from the authorities all over my space.”

“I am not running from the cops! I already told you it’s none of your business, but if you must know I am running away from home.” I answer with a defiant tilt of the head and crossed arms.

He nods his head as if he understands and instead of asking why, like I had presumed he would, he simply says, “Fine. You can stay here if you’d like, though I don’t approve of this nonsense. You should be thankful you have a home to run away from, not going off for who knows what silly reasons you justify this with.”

In shock I stand there, not entirely sure how to respond. Thankfully, he starts talking again before I reveal something.

“Make yourself at home. I sleep over there,” he points to the corner I originally found him in, “the rain comes in less from that angle but feel free to camp out wherever. I don’t get any visitors in the night, everyone knows this is my spot, so you don’t have to be on guard or nothin’. Though you probably won’t sleep much, first night is always the hardest,” he rambles on but I zone out in disbelief of sorts.

I walk over to the opposite side of the bridge from where he had said he stays and drop my backpack down. I slide down the dirty, tan colored wall of the bridge, and rest my bum on the sand floor. I bring my knees to my chest and just take in the surroundings. The roof is about six feet from the ground and the only two opposite walls are maybe twelve feet apart. The coloring is tan but it is covered in graffiti and various other markings. The floor consists of sand and pebbles. As my eyes finish roaming about, I focus my attention back to the man.

“So what’s your name?” I ask.

“Billy,” he replies in a deep voice.

‘What an ordinary name,’ I think.

I take in his appearance, now that I am no longer feeling threatened. He is rather tall (a head below the roof of the bridge), a beer belly yet muscled arms, graying hair, brown and wrinkled skin, and gray scruff along his jaw line. He wears dark jeans and a long sleeve flannel shirt. All in all he is rather intimidating looking.

Snapping back to the conversation I hear Billy ask, “And what is your name missy?”

“Anastasia,” I reply truthfully.

He studies me for a second before complimenting, “Seems fitting.”

Unsure of how to reply I look down at my black shoes. A chilly breeze blows by and I tug my knees closer and rest my chin on them in attempt to maintain the most warmth. I mistakenly did not bring a blanket or any other means to keep warm, other than the thin jacket I’m wearing. As my teeth start to chatter I feel something being draped over my shoulders. In alarm I look around, coming to the realization that Billy had come over and put a blanket on me and returned to his spot across the way.

Smiling gratefully I regard him, “Thank you.”

“No problem. I don’t want you to freeze to death over there, you ain’t got any meat on your bones after all,” he says in return.

Glancing down at the black, digital watch on my wrist to avoid his glare I accidently curse aloud the time, “3:30 am?! Time sure flies when you’re running away…”

Billy heard me and asked yet again, “So why are you running away?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I mumble.

Instead of pressing me for my answer he skeptically asks, “How old are you Anastasia?”

“Sixteen thank you very much,” I reply with an attitude.

“You know when I was your age I was living on the streets too. But I didn’t choose that… My mother, bless her soul, kicked me out. Said the road I was goin’ down was not something she would allow under her roof. I didn’t have anywhere to go, I had no plans, I was abandoned by my own mother,” he looks me in the eyes as if to make sure I’m still listening before continuing on, “I was more lost than ever. I started doing hard drugs, I wasn’t just smoking pot anymore, and before I knew it I was addicted to crack. I would do anything to get my hands on it. Stealing, cheating, lying, raping, fighting…It was my way of life. I would hate myself after but as soon as I hit the rock, it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered…” he pauses again to gauge my reactions.

I sit there, dumbfounded. ‘This man is just spilling his story to me and I don’t even know him.’ I think in my head.

Continuing on Billy says, “I had been staying on the streets for a year or so, smoking the rock as much as I could, but my times caught up with me. When I was about seventeen I got arrested for the first time. I had always slid under the radar before but I guess when you got as bad me then there’s no way you can get out of it,” he shakes his head almost in disgust before continuing, “I was as tall as I am now, but I weighed almost nothing. The drugs had hollowed me out. I was all skin and jarring bones, my eyes were burrowed in the sockets, dull and lifeless… I was knocked out when the cops found me. Someone had called them while I got the life beaten out of me for not paying the dealer for the base. Thank God for that person, if not for them I wouldn’t be here right now,” looking me in the eyes again I notice the depth they hold as he tells his story.

I nod at him to go on, eager to hear the rest of the story.

He starts up again, “In juvi I attended NA meetings. I practiced the program for the whole six months I was there. Once I got out I continued with the program, though I was still on the streets. I relapsed a few times but now I have fifteen years sober. Almost as long as you’ve been alive,” he laughs humorlessly at that before going on “I learned the hard way that drugs and the streets and that entire way of life is never worth it. No matter what your intentions is when you run away it won’t end well. I know times may get rough but this isn’t the road you want to go down,” he looks deep into my eyes begging me to understand.

Unable to bear his pleading, soul searching eyes I look off into the distant, navy blue ocean. I focus on the crashing waves and take in all that Billy has told me. Before I know it a tear is dropping down my chin as another falls from my eye. The tears continue, slowly streaming down my face.

“Anastasia, tell me what could be so terrible that it drives you from your own home to the deathly streets?” Billy asks with a pleading tone.

Focusing my now red rimmed eyes on his intense green ones I say, “My mother is a drug addict and her boyfriends are abusive. It has gotten worse lately… Before she would never hurt me but yesterday—“I stop there, unable to continue.

Billy looks at me, sorrow etched in his kind face. He nods understandingly and murmurs, “It’s okay.”

“I just couldn’t stick around this time…” I finish.

“Do you not have any family to take you in? Where is your father?” Billy questions.

“I don’t know where he is, probably dead in a ditch somewhere. My family is a mystery to me. My mother’s side disowned her long ago and we don’t even know my father’s last name let alone his family,” I respond bitterly.

“You should go back. Talk to someone at school maybe. There is help out there Anastasia, you just have to reach out and find it,” he begs me quietly.

I look out again, this time to see the sky has lightened and then sun is starting to come up. The midnight blue sky fades, turning purple and pink till it slowly is orange. I look up to the now blinding sky. The light burns and seers my eyes making everything white. I hear my name being called softly from the distance and a rough hand shaking my shoulder. Blinking awake, I groggily rub my eyes and yawn loudly.

Furrowing my eyebrows as I stretch I mutter, “I had the most bizarre dream…”