Her breath pushed past her lips in sudden spurts, chest burning with a thick and undeniable pain as the rubber soles of her boots made slapping sounds against the pavement. Beca's mouth was dry, her throat burning as she struggled to control her breathing with a thick edge.

Muddy water splashed up on her jeans, the dirt keeping the rough denim adhered to her ankles. The weather was chilling, chilling enough to bite at her nose as the mercy of the cold tore into her skin.

She panted, pressing her back roughly against the brick wall as she clenched the paint can in her grasp. It was cold, the scent of the red marking she had chosen to brand the inside of a construction zone with kept a strong stench. Her stance wavered as she winced.

The cut that ran across the inside of her thigh was enough to get the girl seeing spots. She hadn't noticed the syrupy liquid rushing down her leg until a few moments ago when she willed herself to stop, trying desperately to catch her breath.

The small girls fear sparked back up as a rough voice shouted over the sound of passing traffic. The alleyway was partly blocked, she considered her options as she shoved herself away from the brick and mortar, her palms scraped and stinging. Beca took off as fast as she could on a damaged leg, rushing towards the junkyard across town, knowing that the limits would break eventually.

Her shoulder shoved roughly against another person, breath escaping from her lungs as she let out a rough grunt, eyes meeting with the unforbidden ones of an officer. Her stomach dropped, mouth dry as she stumbled back towards the little opening that she had chosen to rest in.

"Stop right there!" The man finally found his words, reaching for his belt. Beca clenched her jaw, the last thing she needed was a man pointing a weapon towards her in the middle of a busy city street. A slight crowd beginning to form. "Put your hands up!"

She swallowed roughly, the slight resemblance of a smirk on her lips as she rose her hands slightly. "What, you're going to shoot me because of a little graffiti?"

He was stoic.

"Put your hands up!"

She shook her head, knowing this was it for her. The girl had been detained more than once, car theft being the most recent charge that made a way onto her record. Her father had mentioned something about channeling her angst into her art- but part of her knew she took it too literally.

Beca let out a slight sigh as she loosened her hold on the can, the officer adjusting his position, watching her carefully. It clattered to the sidewalk, knowing that nothing would really happen. She had knocked the cans off of counters countless times. They never did anything but make a loud and obnoxious noise.

The man's force was strong, fingers fighting past the fabric of the girl as her cheek scratched against the wall. She breathed in the earthy scent, closing her eyes as the metal cuffs pinched against her wrists. There was no reason to struggle or fight against the police officer, her breath wavering as she clenched her eyes shut, knowing that her little artistic spree wasn't worth it.

"You have the right to remain silent." The man with stormy eyes struggled to talk past his cotton scarf. "Anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of law. You have the right to an attorney."

The girl let out a thick sigh, not bothering to listen to the rest of his speech. She had it memorized anyway.

"Rebecca Mitchell." The man's voice echoed throughout the hospital room, a thick scent of antiseptic filling the lawyer's nose as he walked through the emergency room. The girl's chest tightened with anxiety as she pressed herself closer to the headboard in the small area.

Her fingers were numb, hand chained to the metal bumpers that rested on the sides of the blue plush gurney. Her mouth tasted like cotton, let throbbing roughly as she tried to avert her eyes from the security guys stare. They were brown, muddy like the puddles that she had dredged through on her little chase.

Beca needed stitches, her pants ripped against the edge of thigh as the rustic stitching hardened and crusted over. She had bled a lot, jaw clenched as she waited for the little floral curtain to whip back to reveal her steamed father. He was loud, talking to the nurse in a muffled voice.

"That your dad?"

"Hmm?" Beca knit her eyebrows together as she looked towards the man who had a folded magazine on his lap. It was sports illustrated, the girls were barely dressed, and something told the young girl that his infatuation had nothing to do with the compelling political pieces.

"You're in for it." The man let out a sigh, adjusting his position.

"I know." She did. Her voice a deep growl as she watched the curtain carefully. She knew it was coming but still jumped when the edge scrapped roughly against the metal pole. She drew in a breath.

Dr. Mitchell stared her way, not taking his unforgiving gaze off of his nervous daughter. Her mouth was dry and painful as she swallowed roughly, knowing whatever words came out of her mouth wouldn't change the situation at hand.

"I'll uh-"The man took a step away from the situation, hooking his hand on his black leather belt. "I'll give you some space."

"That would be best." The older man hissed under his breath.

His stance was strong, a tweed jacket hugging his sides. Beca could tell that he had rushed from work, something she never wanted to happen. He cared about his jobs, about his law classes and his theories that he would preach until his face turned blue. A low 5 O'clock shadow graced his jawline as his milky eyes hardened.

"Hi, dad." The girl squeaked out.

He sighed roughly, "How's your leg?"

The question shocked the girl. She wanted him to yell, in a way. This eerie calmness was more disturbing than if he had screeched at her. She was craving some type of reaction other than this one right here. Other than the disappointment.

"They said I'll be fine. The cut wasn't that deep."

"That's good." He swallowed, pushing the little black rolling chair towards his daughter as he lowered himself into the seat. He groaned at the sudden dip in posture as Beca stared at him with so much caution. "We need to talk."

"Talk, or argue?" She whispered, ducking her head. It was something out of shame, or maybe even fear. Either way, her stomach churned as she used her free hand to mess with the hem of her shirt.

"Both," Dr. Mitchell laughed, "Beca, I realize that you feel the need to act out… but I have spent so much time and energy trying to be the good guy here. I can't keep striking your offenses like this."

"I know,"

"Do you?"

She did. Her anger was boiling behind the fear that drove her. Everything about her father made her angry. She didn't want to move in with him, not after what he did to her mother. She knew the two of them weren't happy, but that didn't' give him the right to crowd her into a house with his new wife, the very wife that put the evil in the stereotype of stepmom.

"There is a point when acting out isn't acceptable anymore, and I think that this is it, Rebecca. No more."

"What does that mean?" She asked voice strained.

"It means you're leaving."

Her expression perked up momentarily. Part of her goal when she started this nonsense at the beginning of the summer had everything to do with getting in enough trouble to head back to her mom's house in Virginia. She knew the woman had her own life, but she missed her- missed the freedom that came with the nights spent there while she worked in a mountain shop, learning survival all while trying to give everyone a good deal on canoes.

"You're not going back to your mother." He let out a thick sigh, "The two of us have been talking, and we think that Public School is a little bit too much for you."

"I'm sorry?" Beca asked, lifting her eyebrow.

"Boarding school, Beca." He stood, shaking his head as he stared at the handcuffs around his daughter's wrist, linking her to the bed. "You're going to boarding school."

[A/N: A little boring, I know, but I had to give you guys some backstory!]