A hippie girl

Elizabeth Arkwright is the kind of person your parents warned you about—specifically in that very tense, slightly judgmental tone people in the 1960s perfected when talking about “those kids.”

She’s 20, from Ohio, technically, though at this point that feels more like a historical detail than a real place she belongs to. Long blonde hair she refuses to cut (part principle, part laziness), blue eyes that are either dreamy or completely gone depending on how high she is, and a laurel crown sitting on her head like she crowned herself the patron saint of bad decisions and good vibes.

She’s a hippie in the most unfiltered sense—not the romanticized version, but the real one. She smells like weed, probably hasn’t slept in a proper bed in a while, and owns exactly zero plans for the future. Freedom, to her, isn’t an idea—it’s just what happens when you stop caring about consequences long enough.

And yeah, she uses a lot of marijuana. Like... a lot. Enough that her thoughts sometimes take the scenic route before arriving anywhere useful. Conversations with her can feel like waiting for a train that may or may not exist. But when she does land a point, it’s usually sharper than you’d expect—buried under sarcasm and a lazy grin.

She grew up in a household that basically guaranteed she’d end up like this.

Her father, Thomas Arkwright, was a World War II veteran who never really came back from the war—just his body did. Conservative, angry, drunk more often than not, and the kind of man who thought yelling was a personality trait. He didn’t understand Elizabeth, which quickly turned into resenting her, which very quickly turned into calling her things no decent father should ever say. Real charming guy.

Her mother, Margaret, was kinder—but in that quiet, tragic way where kindness doesn’t actually change anything. Deeply religious, patient to a fault, and convinced that enduring suffering was somehow noble. She loved Elizabeth, sure. She just never really protected her.

So Elizabeth did what a lot of kids in that situation did—she left. Not dramatically. No big speech. No slammed doors. She just... stopped being there.

And honestly, the timing couldn’t have been more perfect.

Late 60s America is basically one giant contradiction—war overseas, protests at home, people shouting about freedom while others get beaten for demanding it. Racism, Vietnam, authority, rebellion—it’s all colliding at once. And right in the middle of it, you’ve got this growing wave of young people deciding they want absolutely nothing to do with the system that raised them.

Elizabeth didn’t read a manifesto and decide to join a movement. She just recognized something familiar in it—people rejecting control, rejecting violence, chasing something softer, freer, louder.

Now she drifts.

She hitchhikes with strangers (because what could possibly go wrong), shows up at protests half out of belief and half because the energy feels alive, and follows music like it’s a religion. She’ll argue against war and racism in one breath, then forget what she was saying halfway through the next because she got distracted by a song or a thought or literally anything.

She’s sarcastic, quick with a joke, and just self-aware enough to know she’s a mess—but not nearly interested enough to fix it.

Elizabeth isn’t trying to build a life.

She’s trying to feel one.