𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔 ➙ 𝐩𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐧

𝟔. 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐚 𝐜𝐚𝐫

𝐍𝐎𝐁𝐎𝐃𝐘 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐀𝐒 a specific list for running away; at least, not any sane person. But with the type of past like mine, I've created a list of my own. The only issue was, I was ready to run and hide, to leave everything behind in an instant, but that wasn't the case right now. I had friends, I went to a good school and I thought I had my life together.

Yet, here I was, standing in front of my empty backpack with my head filled with fear and hesitation. For once, I didn't want to run. I didn't want to give everything up because of fear. I didn't want to leave anything to chance.

But I had unanswered questions. What was that thing in my room? How did I get rid of it? Why was there, only now, writing on the postcard? What was in Storybrooke that's so important?

"Get it together, y/n," I muttered to myself as I continued to focus on the bag. "You're losing it," And as I stared at the bag, lost and confused, it did the one thing I would never expect it to do; levitate.

The brown bag glowed red, its outline almost sparkling with magic, which could never be possible. Scared, I stepped back, causing the bag to drop back onto my comforter. "It's me..." I gasped quietly.

Reaching my hand out, I touched that bag and focused on it levitating again. My hand shook violently out of panic, my eyes sharp on the object. Up, up, up.

And it did.

It rose into the air once more, the soft red glow resuming its position around the bag. I took a step back, and the bag was still in the air. I moved around the room, eyes focused on the bag, and when I stuck my hand up, calling for it, it flew into my grasp.

A sly smile appeared on my face and my eyes lit up. "Wicked,"

I knew I should be afraid of this power, but I was comforted instead. It was like something within me finally broke and everything was slowly coming together... but I wasn't exactly sure what everything was.

"Let's do this," I spoke. My words graceful and confident, not the need, but the want to leave lacing every word.

Throwing open my closet, I began piling every item I may need on my journey into my bag, my special list bright in my mind.

✦ ✦ ✦

I lifted my hand off of the doorknob, my key icy cold in my palm. The door number, 522, in a shiny silver metal was bolted to my sage green door. This was it. I was leaving, and I had no clue if I was coming back. I closed my fist around the key and shoved it into my pocket; plan for the worse and never leave anything up to chance.

I was dressed in a pair of sweatpants, a long-sleeved shirt and a jacket, something simple. Walking away from my room, I headed towards the elevator, bag slung around my shoulder.

If the postcard was right, and I wasn't safe here anymore, why did it think that I would be better in a town that... that doesn't even exist? If Storybrooke didn't exist, where would I go to be safe? Would I even be safe there?

The elevator dinged and I walked out. The main floor was dim, meaning that it was late and most people were dead asleep. Pushing open the front doors, a brisk gust of air blasted me in the face, throwing my hair away from my face. I shielded my face with my hand before stuffing it into my pocket.

The streets of New York were dull at the hour, only the odd person walking the streets alone. Lights were dimming and ready to die any second. The only reliable light was the moon; a glowing orb that reflected against the windows and glittered against the small puddles that lined the bare streets.

I made my way down the sidewalk, my boots softly tapping against the concrete with each step. I kept my head on a swivel, knowing what it was like for a woman at night in a big city -or any city at all, at any time of day. I always thought that it was disgusting how men, and some women, could do this and then pretend it never happened or revelled in it with such pride.

As I continued my walk, I could see a long strip of cars all parked alongside the curb. Taking a quick glance around me, I notice nobody was around, at least from what I could see in the dim light. Heading towards the first car, I pulled at the handle; locked. The car was a Honda Accord (1997), and I knew that these were the easiest to hotwire.

Quickly grabbing my kit, I pulled out a flathead screwdriver. I pushed it into the top of the driver's window where the glass met the rubber. Then, with small pushes, I slid it all the way down the window and then managed to pull it back enough to stick my hand into the car. I swiftly unlocked it and pulled the door open.

When I was thirteen, and in a foster home filled with teenage boys, they had brought me to a junkyard and taught me how to do this, and many other tricks that had worked wonders for me. I never saw them again after I left, but I figured they were somewhere better.

I threw my bag into the back seat and began searching the car. If I was lucky -and if they were dumb enough- there would be a spare set of keys -you'd be surprised how many people accidentally leave their keys in their car after a long day.

I slammed the glove box closed and leaned back in my seat. I knew how to hotwire a car, thankfully, but I was never the best at it since we didn't have many places to practice if you know what I mean. I held the pair of keys in my hand and watched as the silver glittered against the moonlight.

As I leaned my head back, something else bright and gold caught my eyes. Pulling down the sun visor, I could see a small pocket with a pair of credit cards sticking out of it. Whoever drove this car clearly didn't think anything through.

I've already broken into a library and was about to steal a car, a few dollars could hurt. I closed the visor, knowing that I would only use it in case of an emergency, and started the car. I grabbed my phone from my pocket and pulled up a map. I knew that Storybrooke didn't show up on a map, but Maine did and that was a better start.

"Starting route to Maine, United States," The GPS stated, "Estimated time is seven hours and thirty-four minutes,"

Pulling away from the curb, I began my drive to Storybrooke, a small ball of hope growing larger in my stomach.