A/N: I wrote this for a contest last year, and got some sort of award for it. So I figured I'd publish it, even though it's really not RENT-centric, as much as it is just a stealing of a character. I don't own RENT (or Maureen) but I do own the idea, as well as a certificate saying that this is my story. Yay me.

As I'm dusting, I catch my reflection in the only nice thing in this house, a stunning silver teapot that rests on the mantle. Empty gray eyes stare back at me. I sigh and push a lock of auburn hair out of my eyes.

"Maureen?" A rough male voice startles me out of my daydream, and I wince at the mispronunciation of my name.

"Yes, sir?" I ask in a thick accent, turning around.

"Get your head out of the clouds and get a move on dinner. I'm going to the tavern for a moment, and when I get back I had better see food on my table. Understood?"

I nod and head into the kitchen. It's stifling hot in the window-less kitchen, a suffocating tomb of sorts; to me, this seems rather foolish, considering the fireplace has nowhere to vent. If anything were to go awry, the entire place would go up in flames. I place the ingredients for soup in a pot over the fire and retreat to my closet-like room next to the kitchen. I flop onto my mattress and gaze at the uneven wood plank ceiling.

My mind immediately begins working a mile a minute; it is a wind-up toy whose key has been wound. If I'm going to escape this hellhole, it must be soon. I managed to survive both the ship ride here from France and the grueling winter, but I don't know how much longer I can hold out on one-half a slice of bread and a few spoonfuls of soup a day. I should have more; it's in my contract, but that alcoholic master of mine, Nathaniel, uses my money to get drunk.

I need the weather to hold out – no snow, no hailstorms or other calamities. It is the end of April already, so I really must begin to plan my move. And I need to escape when Nathaniel sleeps. God, I can't stand him. I do feel vaguely bad for Nathaniel's twenty-year-old brother, James, however. But seriously! Did they really expect that I, a sixteen-year-old girl and a well-known firebrand in France, would stay cooped up in a house, working all day, willingly?

I never had any intention of coming to America just to do more women's work all day long and have my food rations sold for alcohol! But selling my soul into the workforce was the price of passage and so I took it. Yet, I need to get out: NOW. The only way to put a stop to this idiocy is to run away. My first predicament: by land or by sea?

. . .

My eyes snap open, and I inhale the delicious scent of vegetable soup. The soup! I jump up and run, tripping and stumbling, through the doorway to the adjoining room. Thank God! The soup is still there – slightly overcooked but still good; Nathaniel isn't home yet and the house hasn't burned down. So far, so good.

I take a ladle and spoon some of the soup into an earthenware bowl. I scarf it down, wash and refill the bowl and hustle it to the table just as Nathaniel walks in the door. He glares at me so I scurry back into the kitchen until I am needed again.

Sitting in a little chair in the corner, looking like Goldilocks on Baby Bear's roughly hewn chair, I ponder my getaway once more. I would walk, and I would leave tonight. I figure that if I travel in a boat, and someone realizes where I am headed, I could be caught at the next port. As for where to go, I've heard of positive potential promise perhaps in Pennsylvania – Philadelphia to be exact. I plan to travel by night, and to sleep in caves or high up in trees during the day.

I don't think that my "masters" will care much if I disappear. Sure, they would lose their maid, but what with ships arriving from Europe once a month, they are bound to get a new worker within a week. And with all the stressing over finding a new servant, they might not even bother to look for me, and if they do, they won't look far. They just don't care enough about a crazy teenage girl.

I hear Nathaniel and James calling, so I push my thoughts to the back of my head, just in case they can read minds.

. . .

It is early evening. Late enough that it's dark and that everyone else is asleep; early enough so that if I leave within the next hour, I can walk for a good ten or so hours before anyone knows that I'm missing. I hear the men snoring on the other side of the house, and I tiptoe into the kitchen to prepare for my journey. Gripping my waist-length hair in my left hand, I use a kitchen knife to cut it all off. I glance in the back of a spoon and see that I slightly resemble a man now.

To make the girlish hues of my hair go away, I rub the contents of my bottle of ink into it. I now have short jet-black hair, and that, along with my emotionless gray eyes, enhances my appearance as a male upon first glance. I dress in simple cloth breeches and shirt that James had given me to wash, and put on a pair of worn-in shoes that will make walking all those miles more comfortable.

Now for provisions: a pouch filled with money, a bunch of apples, quite a few potatoes, a large hunk of corn bread wrapped in a cloth, a flint and knife, medicinal herbs in case I get sick, and a canteen of water all fit snuggly into my leather sack. I throw in some tobacco for good measure – either to chew or to trade. Grabbing a map I had somebody at the town hall draw up when I shopped for soup ingredients, I head out the back door without a backwards glance.

. . .

The sun begins to awaken in the eastern sky, a wispy, ethereal mist surrounding it. Thankfully, I haven't run into anyone – wanted or otherwise – in the long night. Mostly, I've kept to the trees, every once in a while climbing up one to scout the surrounding area for people on my trail. I feel a blister forming on my right heel that by tonight will be a problem. I plan to follow the river's edge a bit, heading inland all the while.

Once I'm far enough from the bay area, I can begin to head north, towards Maryland and then northeast into Pennsylvania. My legs hurt; it's as if my muscles have been wired with cloth knots from walking so long without stopping. My head throbs as I think of having to repeat this in just a few hours.

Spotting a place in the underbrush where I can hide for the day, I crawl beneath a low overhang that is apparent in the light of the morning and discover that it leads to a small cave. I lean against the wall and chew on part of an apple. I sip a bit of water and place everything back in my bag.

As I fall asleep, I have a strange sensation in my soul: the feeling of freedom.