Fear—It was overpowering, clouding her brain, filling her mouth with that bitter, god-awful taste. She had been so close. So close to feeding her family, if you could call it that, for at least that night. In a botched second, she had gone from a 17 year old homeless girl to a 17 year old fugitive on the run from the law. She ran hard through the neon night, ignoring the shouts of the constables behind her. Her jubilation and anticipation when she silently slipped the man's wallet from his back pocket had soured into a single rotten feeling that she couldn't shake as easily as she had his grasp—Fear.
It controlled her, pushed her away from its source. A constable's whistle blew and people gave her dirty looks as they realized she was on the run. Someone in the droves of people decided to help, and grabbed her tattered jacket. It took only a second to slide from the torn material, but that second closed the gap between herself and the law by more, maybe, than she could afford. She saw up ahead that there was a crowd in front of a Punch and Judy show, and figured it was her best chance. She dove through the throng of people, receiving hateful glares and unkind remarks, but she broke through with no sign of any constables behind her.
Fear—It was still there, but its grip over her had loosened, and rational thought once again sank in. The girl ran down one of the Circus' many back alleys and hid behind a dustbin after a couple of turns. Without thinking, she began to cry, not for herself, but for her family, the little kids to whom she was a mother figure who would go hungry because of her mistake. She picked up the wallet and threw it, the wretched thing. It hit the wall opposite her and landed in a puddle of sewer water. The kids would go hungry, fall asleep on empty stomachs, and wake up with nothing to calm their screams.
The girl pulled a wad of paper from one of her jean pockets, letting a five-pound note, the only money she had had at the beginning of the night, and some lined paper fall to the ground. In her hand, she still held an old photograph; her parents smiled up at her, and calmed her. The memory of them from when they were still alive took away her sadness and calmed her down. The constables wouldn't find her for a while, she figured, if they did at all. The maze of alleyways around the circus wasn't that complicated, but it was big enough to discourage a manhunt for a pickpocket.
But it wasn't. She heard footsteps and a call, "Miss, please come to us, we can help you."
She didn't want their help, which would certainly be a ratty foster home with ratty foster parents who would beat her, or neglect her. It had happened before, and she got out. No, she thought, not again, and put the paper and the photograph back into her pocket. The fear came back, a flood of adrenaline through her veins, and she felt younger, like a child about to have a tantrum. The constable must have seen the wallet or her ripped shoes because he called out again, closer, "Miss, I can see you, please, I can help you."
"Get away," she demanded, croaking the words out through her clenched teeth.
"Miss? You're not in trouble—"
"Don't you listen?"
His footsteps came closer, on the side of the large dustbin, "Miss?"
She let go of her fear, letting it course from her into pure energy, and the ground beneath him shook.