Runs with Scissors

Riley didn't remember getting in the truck.

One moment she was standing under the harsh glow of the gas station lights, hands raised, her brother storming toward her like a freight train—and the next, she was in the back seat of Logan's Silverado. The interior

smelled like sweat and made her stomach twist.

No one spoke.

Logan gripped the steering wheel like he wanted to snap it in half, knuckles white. Savannah sat beside him, straight-backed and stone-faced. She looked like she was afraid Riley's chaos might reach over the

seat and stain her clothes.

They didn't look at her.

And honestly? Riley was glad. She didn't want to see whatever was in their eyes. Pity? Disgust? That self-righteous "I told you so"

that Savannah wore like perfume?

The silence pressed in. Thicker than anger. Heavier than guilt. Outside, trees slid past like shadows—bare branches clawing at the sky, the dark road

stretching endlessly forward like a punishment she hadn't fully earned yet.

She could still feel the heat of Derek's truck seat. The blood on his lip. The moment she'd thrown up her hands like she was

surrendering to a firing squad. And maybe she was. Maybe that's what this was.

Judgment day.

The tires hummed against the highway. Mile after mile passed. No one said a word.

Just after midnight, they pulled into the neighborhood.

It looked too clean. Too normal.

Her parents' house stood at the end of the cul-de-sac—two stories, eggshell white, with a wraparound porch and hedges trimmed into perfect obedience. It was the kind of place that smiled politely while it

suffocated you.

I can't believe in back at this prison he'll hellscape with my captors.

Her mother was already waiting at the curb. Her hair was pinned back. Her makeup perfect, even this late. She didn't wave. Didn't offer a hug. Just opened the back door of the Lexus and popped the trunk like Riley was luggage.

"Get in," she said.

There was no warmth in her voice. Only control.

Riley hesitated. Just for a second. Then slipped in.

Her father was already in the passenger seat. He didn't turn around. His jaw was locked. The radio was off. The engine hummed softly beneath them.

No one asked if she was okay.

No one asked what happened.

There was nothing in the car for her.

No bag. No questions. No comfort.

Only exile.

They pulled away from the house and headed north. No music. No conversation. Riley sat pressed against the door, trying to take up as little space as possible. Her hoodie smelled like Derek's truck. Her body

ached—not physically, but deep in her bones, like she was hollowing out from

the inside.

Where are they taking me?

She didn't ask.

She already knew.

Sometime around 3 a.m., the car turned off the interstate and pulled into a run-down motel—the kind with flickering signs and paint that peeled like sunburn. The word "Vacancy" blinked lazily in red neon. It buzzed like it was dying.

Her father got out to check in. Her mother stayed behind, standing by the vending machines under a buzzing yellow light. Riley joined her, the two of them surrounded by humming snack machines and nothingness. They didn't look at each other. Didn't speak.

The room reeked of mildew and forgotten stories. Two queen beds. Stained carpet. A buzzing wall AC unit that sounded like it was coughing itself to death.

Her father claimed the bed by the window and lay on top of the covers with his shoes still on, remote in hand, though he never turned on the TV.

Her mother took the armchair in the corner, legs crossed, back straight like she was still in a boardroom.

Riley dropped onto the farthest bed.

She stared at the ceiling. Its popcorn texture blurred the longer she looked at it. Every now and then, the AC sputtered like it was about to give up entirely.

When her mother went to shower and her father left for ice, Riley moved.

Fast. Quiet.

The purse sat on the nightstand, open.

Her fingers slipped inside, navigating naturally, a habit born of need. The clutter didn't stop her. Lipstick, receipts, a pack of tissues—and finally, a folded wad of cash.

She slid a twenty from the center and tucked it into her bra, right against her chest.

Just in case.

She also retrieved the three cigarettes and pink lighter she'd hidden in her sock. They were warm from her skin. She tucked them deep inside her bra, behind the underwire, her fingers trembling just slightly.

She didn't plan to smoke them. Not yet.

But they were hers.

And that mattered more than anything.

Later, they all pretended to sleep. Riley stayed still, eyes on the ceiling, breath slow. She wasn't sure if her body even belonged to her anymore. She felt like she was floating above it, watching this strange, broken

girl below.

That girl didn't scream.

She didn't fight.

She just laid there, waiting.

The next morning, they stopped at a roadside diner.

The kind with cracked red booths and sticky laminated menus. The walls were beige. The waitress had gray roots and tired eyes.

Her mother ordered oatmeal. Her father got toast and eggs.

Riley stared at the menu like it was in another language. Her hands shook a little when she finally set it down.

"Pancakes," she said quietly.

 There were a couple other tables filled. A child running around yelling. An elderly couple holding hands. They stuck out, not fitting.

The waitress brought their food quickly. They sat on silence a while, eating like strangers.

Her mother stirred her oatmeal in perfect circles. Her father buttered his toast like it was a ritual. No one asked how she slept. No

one brought up the night before.

Then, between sips of coffee, her mother finally said something.

"After this, we'll stop and get you something proper to wear."

Riley blinked. "For what?"

"For your intake."

She scoffed. "You mean for them to strip off and throw in a bin?"

Her mother didn't respond. Just dabbed her mouth with a napkin, unbothered.

They stopped at a Wal-Mart next, the only store in town. Her mother didn't want to go. She wanted a better store. Like the poverty of Walmart could hurt her.

The air inside was stale and cold, smelling faintly of plastic and disinfectant. Riley trailed behind her mother through the aisles of stiff fabric and cheap shoes.

Her mother didn't hesitate. She stopped in front of a rack of women's suits and pulled out a powder blue set—blazer and slacks. The fabric looked rough. Unforgiving.

"This should fit," she said.

Riley stared at it. "I'm not running for office."

"You're not running at all," her mother snapped.

They went to the self check out, her mother eyeing the cashier suspiciously.

They didn't use the dressing room. Riley changed in the backseat of the Lexus. She peeled off her torn hoodie and jeans and climbed into the uniform of the girl her parents wanted to present: neat, fixed,

compliant.

The pants were too long. The blazer too tight. She looked like she was playing dress-up in someone else's life.

But her mother looked pleased.

So she said nothing.

They drove the rest of the way in silence. The trees grew denser. The road narrower. Her cell signal dropped to one bar, then none.

When they finally arrived, Riley's chest tightened.

The building was squat, windowless, made of reddish brick and metal. There was no sign. No welcome mat. No illusion of safety.

Just a keypad.

The gates shut behind them with a mechanical groan. Final.

A woman in scrubs opened the door. No smile. No name tag.

"Right this way."

Inside, the air was sterile and cold. The walls were white, too white. The lights buzzed overhead. There were no posters. No inspirational quotes. No sound.

Just the slow hum of silence.

They passed a cafeteria. Girls sat at evenly spaced tables, eating in silence. Their movements mechanical. No one spoke. When a bell rang, they stood in unison and filed out.

Like machines.

There were no boys.

No noise.

No freedom.

Just order.

Dr. Elijah Carrow met them at the front of a hallway. Clipboard in hand. Button-down shirt tucked into slacks. Hair too perfect to

trust.

"Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell," he said. "And Riley. We've been expecting you."

Riley didn't shake his hand, but it didn't seem to bother him.

He led them into a small room—plain, windowless, cold. A camera blinked in the corner.

"I'd prefer to speak with Riley alone," he said. "Patients are more honest without their parents present."

"We'll stay," her mother said quickly.

He didn't argue. Just sat.

The questions came.

"How often do you drink?"

"I don't."

"Drugs?"

"No."

"Sex?"

She narrowed her eyes. "No"

He didn't flinch. Just scribbled.

"Any history of depression? Self-harm? Paranoia? Delusions?"

"Is this a checklist or a fishing expedition?"

Her mother's eyes narrowed. Her father stayed silent.

Finally, Dr. Carrow folded his hands. "Riley, under Florida's extended guardianship provision for mentally compromised dependents, your parents have signed temporary psychiatric authority over to this

facility."

"What does that mean?"

"It means we'll be making decisions on your behalf—clinical, medical, behavioral—until you're deemed mentally competent."

"I'm eighteen."

He nodded. "But the law allows exceptions. Based on your parents' report and my assessment, that threshold has been met."

Her throat closed. "You're saying I don't have rights?"

"I'm saying—for now—you don't."

Riley just sat there, watching her adulthood vanish like smoke.

"What rights do I have?" she asked.

Dr. Carrow didn't blink.

"You have the right to comply."

Her mother finally looked at her. "You'll stay until you're better. I don't care if it takes the rest of your life."