Morgan Anderson. A name that, if I could personify and push it off of the side of a cliff, I would.

A name, of which either are not truly my own anyway, that has roots in this God-forsaken town.

A town, of which no citizen ever leaves, amounting enough to pay the bills but not enough to dream or search for more.

I can't say that I'm surprised though, as my family has owned the same property here in the eastern section of Scranton for four-to-five generations. A bunch of my relatives, finding work in the surrounding suburbs, but congregating to our family home in the Throop area. Comfortable with the lives they are living, the jobs they hold...and never seeking any other true happiness.

Morgan Anderson, who has accepted this comfort level and has slipped into the routine following her family. Accepted the life of being nothing but a receptionist for the rest of her life. Nothing but the wife of a former high school star quarterback turned warehouse worker. Nothing but everything that her family had expected for her.

Everyone around her, proud to see her at the young age of 26, married and starting her own life with the man that she loves.

Her life is perfect, others always announce.

Until they read between the lines, pull back the cover to see the financial burden her husband leaves her to manage as his gambling debt increases each and every Thursday and Friday nights. To see the countless bottles and cans of Budweiser in the recycling bins taken out once a week, some cracked in half from an argument over the act of drinking. To see the spackle on their hallway walls, strategically hidden by plants or purchased artwork, from dents that match the shape of the side of her head.

To the night in the hospital, she spent, that he told family and friends was from dehydration, instead of blood loss. Instead of attempted sexual assault.

Instead of domestic violence.

And, Morgan Anderson would just...accept this. Accept that the man who promised in front of God that he would love her no matter what lays hands on her. Accepts that he does not want her to better herself, denying she take opportunities that would make her smarter than he was. Accepts that he lie to the others who care about the couple to miss birthday parties, anniversaries, nights out, so he could control what she says or does.

She just...accepts this.

When her heart knows she's not truly loved. Knows she wants better for herself. Knows she deserves better.

Knows she doesn't want to be the woman married to Roy Anderson anymore. Knows she's destined to be more than just a receptionist for the company that her husband works for.

She hides her passion for art, painting specifically. Hides her passion for reading. Hides her passion for wanting to start a family because Roy does not want kids.

But, maybe she's done hiding.

Maybe she wants what she desires, for the first time in her life. To move on from Scranton, move on from Roy.

To move on from Morgan Anderson.

As I hold onto one last piece of her, her Pennsylvania state-issued Driver's License, I take one final look at this woman.

Long, straight blonde hair, that her husband forced her to keep, albeit it not being her natural color or type. Green eyes, of which her husband ridiculed her for having all of the time, that actually suits her nicely.

Morgan Anderson. 6477 Helkerson Drive Scranton, PA.

And address that will forever be stained by bloodied hands, drunken slurs...

"Hey," I hear from behind me. Karen, a neighbor of ours, peeking through the door to her own first-floor bathroom. She, and her husband Dan, live across the street. "The only color they had left was this Auburn one. I bought two, is that alright?," she asks, placing a towel around my neck, covering an old, gross t-shirt and ratty-old blue jeans I had in the back of my closet.

"T-that's alright. I'll take whatever I can get, honestly," I respond, as she begins to brush my hair with the brush I brought from home. Karen says she has done this plenty of times on herself and many many friends. I watch in the mirror, as she parts my hair into four sections. I never have done this out of a box before, so I'm rightfully nervous.

She starts with one section, using a brush at my roots to stroke the copper color, ridding of the professionally-done dirty blonde that once stood in its place. It's soothing, yet nerve-racking.

Minutes go by, my stomach half in a knot, half relieved by the change, as Karen colors the last strands of hair, and my eyebrows. She has me sit for about 20 minutes, allowing me to take a glimpse at the new person in the mirror.

She's bold. Doesn't look like someone who would let life lead her instead of leading her own life.

I hear a knock on the bathroom door, as Dan appears. Dan has a background in graphic design and computer programming and told me he could make something for me. "So," he starts. "I have three templates up on the computer for you: one for a driver's license, a birth certificate, and a social security card. All I would need is a photo for your license and a name."

Karen returns to the room, holding what appears to be a phone. "And I have the phone we gave to my grandmother, that she did not want. It's its own separate number, so you wouldn't have to purchase your own," she says, handing me the older iPhone. "It was never used before, so nobody other than my mother and I recognize the number."

"Great, thank you," I say, whilst turning over to look at Dan. "Well, we'll take a photo once my hair's done, but as for a name..." I start with it.

A name...something I hadn't thought of yet. A name, to rid of Morgan Anderson for the rest of my life...

Morgan, funny enough, isn't even my first name. It's my middle name. I always hated my first name, I thought it sounded too old-fashioned for my liking. Therefore, I had always gone by Morgan. Instead of being called my full name when in trouble as a child, my own mother would use Morgan and her middle name: Lynn. Morgan Lynn Benson. Roy met me as Morgan Lynn Benson, married me as Morgan Lynn Benson-Anderson. Would never even know...that my first name actually is Pamela.

Pam...

But, I could never be Pam Benson. It was too obvious, to use my own maiden name. Even as common of the last name Benson is, Roy knows it. He could just look up the surname, and eventually find me.

But, what could work? I have no real friends, thanks to him, to base my new surname on. Benson is so known in Scranton, that friends tend to come and go within my family. No family friend names ever stuck with me. A bunch of Millers, or O'Hennessys, or Longwoods.

The only time the name Benson wasn't used in my family was from my great-aunt on my mother's side. She was the only family member of mine that never married, never had kids. She traveled constantly, always coming back to tell stories to us about far-off places such as Nepal, Japan, Argentina, places we could only dream about.

Her name was Great Aunt Millie: Millicent Henley Beesly.

Beesly...

"My name," I respond, after many silent, thoughtful moments. "Is Pamela. Pamela Morgan Beesly."

"That's a great name, Pam," Karen states, as she walks me over to their shower to rinse the dye from my hair.

I sigh of relief. I was originally skeptical of asking Karen and Dan for help. We, Roy and I, had only met them once when they moved into our neighborhood last May from Utica. They invited us over one night for a barbecue.

Roy had absolutely no desire to go, knowing it meant that I would be meeting people, something he refused that I do.

They made us a delicious dinner, but when it came to making small talk, Roy would constantly answer for me, not giving me the change to ever speak.

But, Karen and Dan are the only individuals on this street who know me. If I were going to ask for help and bare my hidden truths, they were the ones I was going to ask. Especially since Roy will not be home all weekend, it was the best place to go to ask.

I watch as the copper die rinses down the drain, as Karen places conditioner in my hair. "Pam," she starts. "Don't wash your hair with shampoo for at least 24 hours. If you do, it will fade your color."

"A-alright. No problem," I say, watching as she rinses the conditioner out of my now ginger hair. I never would have pictured myself with red hair, but I never would have pictured myself running away from Scranton in the first place...

Dan returns into the bathroom, holding two printed out documents. "Here is your birth certificate and social security card, Ms. Beesly," he says, handing me the two documents. "And whenever we can take your photo, I can print off your license for you. If you don't mind either, Karen and I have this for you," he states, handing off an envelope. I open it, to see a boatload of money in it.

"Oh, no. I can't accept this, Dan," I say, trying to pass it back to him.

"We insist," Karen says, seating me back in the chair in front of her counter-space, scissors in hand. "You won't have to ever pay us back, this is for you to start this new life off with. The best way to pay us back is finding solstice away from that douchebag."

I sigh, I could never take this money. But, it seems as though they will not take no for an answer. "Thank you," I state. "For everything, honestly. I never expected help..."

"Well, you deserve happiness," Dan announces. "We're always happy to help."

I smile, as Karen starts to trim my hair.

Roy always wanted my hair long. It's hard to maintain it, with its length. Roy would pay for me to get it dyed each month, to keep it the way he would want it. I'd be lying to say that I like the color. I did my hair like this back in high school, when we met, but I'm now 26. I've been away from high school for 8 years now, I'm not the same...

"And, done the trimming. Is this a length that you like?" Karen pops my thought bubble. It's...gorgeous. Something I would never think to say about myself, ever. A smile appears on my face. "I love it," I say, offering my smile to her. "Great, let me dry your hair, and you're set," she says, turning on the blow dryer to complete the new look I shall be wearing every day.

After maybe 5 minutes, my hair was done and...ready.

I take a look in the mirror, at my new identity, please with it completely. "Thank you, Karen. I appreciate it," I say, as she removes the towel from my neck, and begins sweeping the hair off of the floor. "No problem, I'm happy you like it. Dan will take your photo for your license, and I'll order you an Uber to Penn Station. Don't worry about the cost, we'll cover it," she offers. "O-okay..." I say as I walk out of their bathroom, toward Dan's office.

He takes my photo quickly in front of a green screen that he owns, quickly creating my driver's license and handing it to me.

It feels just like a regular one...

"Here you are," he says to me. "You are officially Pamela Morgan Beesly," a statement that brings small tears to my eyes.

I can finally do this...finally leave the life that dragged me down, for...I'm not sure yet. But, anything is better than the life I've lived so far.

I walk downstairs, to see Karen holding a bag. "Here's a handful of clothes to keep, along with some toiletries. I hope they fit, some are brand new that I haven't even used yet. I also threw in a pair of sneakers, just in case yours wear at any point on your trip." She hands me the bag, as I take a look through it. "Our number is programmed in the phone, please call when you settle in somewhere, so we know you're safe, okay?" She asks of me, giving me a hug. "You got this, girl. He won't be able to trace you or find you," she whispers to me as we hug.

"T-thank you, both. For all of your help. I promise to let you know where I end up," I say, breaking from the hug. I take my own phone, an Android, out of my pocket. "It's turned off, so he'll get one of those automated messages. If you could rid of this for me, I'd appreciate it." I ask, handing the phone to Dan. "Also, this to go in the shredder with my old documents?" I pass as well, my original driver's license.

"No problem, I will shred it once you leave," Dan states, offering me a hug.

A horn is heard from outside, the Uber I will be taking to the city. "Well, I best get going," I state, opening their front door. "Thank you, again," I state, looking back at my gracious neighbors.

"Good luck, Pam," Karen says, waving at me as I walk out the door.

I take a glance across the street, at the home, the past. Morgan Anderson was no more, nothing but a name of a woman trapped eternally in Scranton, Pennsylvania. A woman of which would be missed, but forgotten about.

Morgan Anderson is now dead.

As Pam Beesly sets off, off on a treacherous journey, but one that will change her life eternally.