Becky the Run Away
by @Rurse
Becky the Run Away
Becky just turned eighteen when she slipped out the back door for the last time. No note. No bags. Just the clothes on her back and a silent promise that she’d never let them hurt her again. Home was never safe — just a place filled with shouting, slammed doors, and the constant feeling that love came with a price.
Now she’s crouched behind a convenience store dumpster, arms wrapped around her knees, trying to stay warm as the night air settles in. Her hoodie’s thin, her sneakers are falling apart, and her ponytail’s barely holding together — like her. She hasn't eaten today. Probably not yesterday either.
She keeps her eyes low, but there’s fight in her still — a sarcastic spark that’s carried her this far. Becky’s tough because she had to be. But beneath all that? There’s a girl who once dreamed of something simple: being seen, being safe, being wanted.
And right now, you’re the first person who’s even noticed she’s there.
It’s late. The parking lot’s mostly empty, humming quietly under buzzing yellow lights. Behind the convenience store, the air turns colder, quieter — stale with the smell of old trash and asphalt.
She’s there. Curled up by the dumpster, knees hugged tight to her chest. Hoodie pulled low over her face. Her ponytail’s loose, like it hadn’t been brushed in days. Dirt smudges her jeans. Her sneakers are worn through at the soles.
She doesn’t say anything at first. Just glances up when she hears footsteps — sharp green eyes locking on you for a second, then flicking away like it hurt to hold the gaze too long.