Chapter 2 Escape Ticket
"Got it." Celeste shoved her frozen hands into her pockets.
"Don't look so gloomy, Celeste. Once we get that twenty thousand dollars, we'll head to the West Coast, to Los Angeles, anywhere with sunshine and beaches."
In the dim light, Scarlett's eyes were surprisingly bright.
Give her even the smallest bit of hope, and she could turn life into a road movie.
They said goodbye at the intersection.
Scarlett walked toward the north side of town with her hands in her pockets, kicking pebbles, and humming a tune cheerfully.
Celeste's palms were still sweating, a chill running from the soles of her feet all the way up her spine.
This wasn't just a job—it was a life-or-death gamble!
Scarlett's family situation wasn't any better than Celeste's.
Scarlett's mother died young, her stepfather spent all his time at the bar, and as long as he had cheap whiskey, he was fine—he could go months without asking her a single question.
That kind of family was a tragedy, but Celeste couldn't help envying Scarlett.
At least Scarlett was free. Nobody bossed her around, nobody dumped the weight of life on her shoulders.
Scarlett's poverty was just about money, but she was as loose and resilient as wild grass—even when trampled into the mud, she could bounce right back.
Celeste was different.
Celeste turned and walked toward the trailer park on the south side of town.
The closer she got to this "rusty tin can" area, the worse the air became.
The sour stench of sewage mixed with chemical plant fumes—this was what Celeste's life smelled like.
Walking along the muddy gravel path, Celeste stopped in front of a peeling white trailer, climbed the rusty metal steps, her feet making a teeth-grinding sound.
Celeste took a deep breath and turned the warped door handle.
The moment the door cracked open, the stuffy smell of cheap cigarettes, moldy fabric, and leftover pizza hit her in the face.
"You finally decided to come home?"
A sharp, drawn-out voice came from the dim living room.
Celeste's mother, Quinn Sullivan, was slumped there wearing pajamas she hadn't washed in days, a half-smoked cigarette between her fingers.
She didn't even turn her head, staring dead at the late-night shopping channel.
"Went to the library." Celeste closed the door.
"Library?" She blew out a cloud of gray smoke and laughed coldly.
"Is that gonna make tomorrow's breakfast appear? Or pay the lot rent? Celeste, you graduated from high school, you're an adult, not some rich girl living on fantasies!"
Celeste didn't respond, walking to the narrow kitchen and setting her canvas bag on the counter.
The sink was piled with dirty dishes and greasy pans, empty beer cans scattered beside it.
The floor was sticky—syrup spilled who knows when.
This was Quinn's masterpiece for the whole day.
"I'm talking to you, are you deaf?" Quinn glared at Celeste with sunken eyes. "I raised you for eighteen years! My body's already ruined, and my back hurts if I stand too long. And you? You spend all day hanging around with that trashy Scarlett, trying to be a bad girl like her?"
"Scarlett's not a bad girl," Celeste said quietly, turning on the faucet.
The icy water washed over the grease, freezing her fingertips.
"Talking back now?" Quinn's voice shot up as she crushed her cigarette butt into the ashtray on the coffee table.
"Who do you think you are? Think you can leave this town? Let me tell you, you're just like me—you'll rot here your whole life! Six o'clock tomorrow morning, get your ass to the highway diner and ask if they need a dishwasher. If you don't bring back this week's food money, we'll both starve to death in this tin box!"
She screamed those bitter, nasty words. Celeste clenched her jaw and didn't argue back.
Celeste knew her too well.
If Celeste said another word, she'd jump up from the couch, smash whatever she could grab, then start crying loudly, complaining about her tragic fate, accusing Celeste of being a cold-hearted, ungrateful daughter.
She'd torture Celeste with that suffocating silent treatment for a whole week, until Celeste completely gave in and handed over every last coin in her pocket.
In this house, all the chores, all the expenses, even fixing the leaking roof—everything fell on Celeste alone.
She was like a black hole that could never be filled, demanding everything from Celeste as if it were her right, using chains of duty and blood to keep Celeste tied to this broken trailer.
Celeste mechanically scrubbed the dishes with the already-blackened sponge, listening to her mother's curses and complaints gradually lower behind her.
In this moment, Celeste hated her own weakness, hated this life of being bound by family and endlessly drained.
Scarlett could just walk away, but what about Celeste?
As long as Celeste stayed in this town, as long as Celeste was in this house, she'd be sucked dry bit by bit.
Quinn didn't need Celeste to have any bright future—she just needed a tool who could earn money to support her and listen to her vent.
After washing the last dish, Celeste dried her hands and walked silently through the narrow hallway to her small room at the back of the trailer.
The moment she entered, Celeste immediately locked the door.
The sound of the lock was so beautiful.
Only behind this thin wooden door could Celeste feel like she was still breathing.
The room was pitifully small—besides a single bed and a makeshift wardrobe made of old cardboard boxes, there was barely any floor space.
Celeste didn't even take off her clothes, just collapsed onto the mattress with its sagging springs and curled into a ball.
Through the wooden door, the sound of the TV and Quinn's occasional coughing still drifted over faintly, but Celeste could no longer make out what Quinn was muttering.
Celeste stared at the patch of peeling paint on the ceiling that was about to fall off. The late-night silence made her mind wander uncontrollably.
Celeste began replaying everything that happened today, replaying her entire eighteen years of life.
If she didn't leave, what was waiting for her?
Tomorrow, she'd go to that highway diner reeking of bad coffee and cooking oil, put on that greasy uniform, and smile at rude truck drivers.
She'd hand over all her meager wages to Quinn, then watch Quinn turn that money into cigarettes, beer, and useless TV shopping products.
Five years from now, she'd have the same wrinkles as Quinn, the same numb, bitter look in her eyes.
She'd be forever trapped in this leaking trailer park, become part of this rundown town, until she died.
No!
Celeste suddenly clenched the bedsheet beneath her.
Absolutely not!
She'd rather die than live Quinn's life.
The image floated back into her mind—that job posting hidden at the bottom of the computer screen in the public library.
Private psychiatric hospital for severe cases on the outskirts of the city.
Three months, live-in position, twenty thousand dollars.
And those chilling liability waivers: "bodily injury," "irreversible psychological damage," "lifetime silence."
That place was definitely not normal. Any rational person would stay far away from it.
Behind that high pay, there had to be some potentially deadly price.
But did she really need to be rational right now?
