My Father's Daughter

Ty Warren is an orphan, always babied, always taught to be considerate. He's sick of this trapped life. He wants to do something. He wants to become something. He runs away. Whitney Patterson is the good girl. She always listened to her parents, never strayed. Her mother and father were divorced when she was very young, and her mother remarried twice. Once her new stepfather and brother die in a horrible accident, her mother and her are left alone. When her mother remarries again, Whitney is sure nothing will go wrong this time. But it does. And Ty and Whitney, after an unfortunate sequence of events are brought together, eventually possibly falling in love. But will either of them accept it? Or will they finally realize their true feelings when it's too late?

This story only has three chapters because it is being entered in the Sony Young Movellist Of The Year competition.(: wish me luck!

and leave a bunch of feedback or what you think should happen next!!

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4. Freedom Comes at a Price

I wiped the sweat from my brow and looked uncertainly at the sunset. Most people would see it as something beautiful. Something that we should stop and admire for a moment. To Michael and I, it only signified that another night was upon us, and that we needed to keep moving.

We walked along the shoulder of the highway, desperately trying to reach Boston. We wore our hoods over our heads, hoping Ms. Drew hadn't called the police looking for us, hoping we wouldn't be taken back to that prison. Michael walked a small distance ahead of me, neither of us spoke.

My teeth chattered and I pulled my sweatshirt tighter around me. It did nothing, the sun was going down and the fall chill only seemed to be getting colder.

"Michael!" I hissed, the first time I had spoken to him since breaking the boundary, and escaping into the forest. "Michael!" I tried again. No matter how hard I tried, my voice would not cooperate. I could only manage a whisper. A car zoomed by, splashing me with water from a large puddle on the road, remnants of the downpour only a few hours prior. We had run under a shelter of a nearby park and waited for the storm to pass. We had lost two hours, and put ourselves at risk of being caught. However, we were not, and we hadn't gotten wet at all. Until now.

Michael stopped, acknowledging that I had called his name. I ran to stand next to him.

"Where are we staying to--tonight?" I shivered, water pooled in my sneakers.

He just shrugged and began walking again. He kicked a pebble in front of him. I skid a little ways before rolling into the middle of the highway.

"How far away is Boston, do you think?" By now, the sun had completely set, leaving us in darkness. Only the faint lights of the city in the distance lit up the sky. But only barely.

Michael pulled out a flashlight from his coat pocket and clicked it on. I wondered when he had gotten that. Without saying a word, he simply pointed it towards an exit sign. 'BOSTON- 10 MILES,' it read. 

I sighed, stuffing my hands in my pockets. My pants were a little damp, but my hands were colder. "I'm just tired." I mumbled, kicking a stone at my feet.

Michael nodded, but remained silent, nothing was even uttered from his pale lips.

We must have walked for another mile or so, before we saw neon lights to the right of the highway. They were still a good distance away. It was then Michael opened his mouth and spoke.

"C'mon," He mumbled, and hopped the rail, the most direct route to the blinking lights.

I paused, reluctant to leave the safety of the highway. We were so close to Boston...

"If you don't come, I'm leaving you." Michael called, already beginning to stomp through the grasses and trees dividing us from the lights.

I took one final look at the highway, the road to Boston, before jumping the rail and attempting to catch up with Michael. He continued his silence, making me slightly worried about where we were headed.

It took nearly fifteen minutes to get within ten feet of the place. At least now I could see what it was. There was a wooden sign on the building that read 'Duffin's'. I blinked, looking into the windows. A thin layer of grime seemed to coat them, blurring the images. However, I could still see the alarming characters inside. Biker men sat at the counter, watching some sort of match on a mini TV. Another group of burly men hung at a pool table. Then a woman in a skimpy top and short skirt handed the men beers. My eyes widened, I couldn't decide between fear and excitement.

"Ty." Michael removed me from my daze. "Are you coming?" His hand was on the handle of the door.

I nodded, walking to join him. He pulled the door open for both of us and we walked in. I was greeted immediately by the strong scent of alcohol. The bartender nodded at us as we came in, and Michael immediately struck up a conversation. I, now feeling alone and vulnerable, quickly moved to stand behind him. Sad, but true, my fear overcame me. Michael was the strong one, I was just sensible.

"You need a place to stay?" The bartender repeated Michael's statement, and Michael rolled his eyes. "There's a bread and breakfast up a little ways."

Michael frowned. "How far?"

The man shrugged. "It's a bit of a walk..."

"How far?" Michael asked more firmly.

"Five miles." He sighed, pushing up his glasses. They looked really old, and he wore a button-up, long sleeved, blue shirt with a grey vest. In addition, he wore white-washed jeans with an ugly black leather belt. He reminded me of the 80s. Or what I had seen of them from Connie's scrapbooks. She looked to show me pictures of her family, reminding me that families that functioned did still exist. I never believed her.

Michael nodded. "Thank you." He then turned and hopped up on a bar stool. "Hit me up." He slid him one of our twenties. Michael stole money from Ms. Drew in the mornings and bought cigarettes for us in the afternoons. He had stolen more money this time, knowing that he would leave today.

"Michael!" I gaped at him. He glared at me, as if a silent signal to whisper. I lowered my tone. "We only have so much money!"

He shrugged. "Don't be a pussy, Ty."

I frowned at him. "Fine." I mumbled, taking my seat on a bar stool adjacent to his.

Michael received his drink and offered to buy me one, but I rejected. However, as he ordered more and more shots, eventually I obliged, falling into his drunken trap.

Everything became a blur, words were just fuzzy noises in the background. I think I began to sober after that, because I heard  Michael say: "I gotta go take a piss." His words were slurred horribly, and he nearly fell out of his chair. I attempted to help him, but I was too far gone to do anything. His legs were shaky, and almost collapsed twice on his trip over.

The bartender simply shook his head and continued to clean off the counter. Then this big biker came over. He sat in Michael's stool and ordered a drink. He was no harm to me, so I let him sit there.

Michael returned, still as drunk as ever, and strolled right up to the biker. Michael glared at him, before shoving him in the back, causing him to spill his drink. The man growled and turned to face Michael. Michael persisted with his stubbornness and remarked: "That's my seat."

The man stood, and Michael took a few steps to his chair, a victorious smirk on his face. I reclined back slightly, relieved that the biker man had stood down. Then his hand slapped against Michael's chest, holding him back.

"Hold up, shrimp." His tone was scary. "You want that seat, you fight me for it."

My breath caught in my throat. I felt instantly sober, my heart started beating out of my chest. I put down my shot glass and nodded a 'thanks' to the bartender. I walked behind the duo, and found a nice support beam in the center of the room. Deciding this was a safe spot, I hid behind it. Fear swelled in my chest, and I tried to control it.

"Fine." Michael replied.

I gulped.

Then, I heard the worst sound that my ear drums ever witnessed. The crack of bone. Someone had thrown a punch.

I peered around the post to see Michael on the ground. His jaw was bloody. I quickly spun back around, looking straight ahead at the wall.

"That all you got?" Michael's voice seemed watery. His mouth was full of blood. I bit my lip, causing blood to draw out. I immediately stopped, as the blood reminded me of Michael's jaw, his look of confidence.

I heard another gut-wrenching punch. This one hit something soft, as the immediate reaction was a grunt, resulting in the crash of a body to the floor.

"How 'bout that, son?" The biker jeered, and I could hear his friends chuckling in the background. I heard the scuff of a boot on the tile of the floor, followed by a yelp. "Still worth it?" The biker administered another kick.

I felt nauseous.

"Give 'em one more, Walker, then we gotta go." One of the bikers commented, and the squeaking of chairs signaled that they were standing.

"Why don't I let you guys take him?" The biker, named Walker, laughed. "That'll be enough satisfaction for me."

"If you say so," another voice commented, and the squeak of boots on the tile made my heart skip at least two beats.

"Please." Michael whispered.

Then there was a loud crack, and I couldn't tell Michael's screams from mine.

After a little bit, the screaming stopped. There was no sound, except for the door opening, and then it closing. I emerged from my hiding place.

I saw a pool of blood before I recognized Michael. He lied in the middle, and I saw bone penetrating from his body in some parts. His eyes were rolled back in his head, only the whites were visible.

"Michael." I whispered. "Michael, answer me." There was no movement.

I ran around the blood and knelt on the tile in front of his head. I leaned down and rested my head on his chest. Silence.

"Michael!" I screamed. I shook his chest, hit his face. Nothing. "Michael! Don't leave me, please. I don't want to be alone!" Tears begin to slide down my face. "Don't just leave me!" I screamed again.

The bartender looked at me in horror.

"Call 911!" I yelled at him.

"This bar will not be associated with trouble making and death." Was all he said to me.

I gaped at him. "You have to help me!" I cried, standing. My hands were covered in blood and I reached for a napkin on the counter.

The bartender stopped my hand. "Get out." His voice was firm.

"What?" I asked, my voice was so quiet, I wonder if he heard me.

"You're drawing people away from my bar." Then he was next to me, grabbing me by the hood of my sweatshirt. "Just go away." He opened the back door and pushed me out. I landed on my knees. "Sorry." He slammed the door without a hint of remorse.

I sat there, on the cold grass for a moment and just cried. Cried for Michael, cried for me, cried for the fact that I have nowhere to go anymore. Then I curled into a ball and closed my eyes. I wanted to go home. 

I wanted a home.

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