Got to get out of here somehow … don’t I?
Do I have to get out of here? Why would I want to go back to the colossal pile of crap that is my life? Nothing will have changed. I wonder how they’re feeling now. I bet they’re glad I’m gone. Probably makes it a lot easier on them. They might (pretend to) be upset for a bit, but I reckon they’ll get over it before too long.
Ooh, I wonder if I’m in the newspapers? I must be, unless they reckon I’m too old. ‘Missing seventeen-year-old’ just doesn’t have the same ring to it as a missing toddler, or even a twelve-year-old. I probably just made it into the local rag on the first day or so. I hope it was the front page, but I really really really hope they didn’t use my last school photo, cos I’d forgotten the photographer was coming that day and I’d slept in too late to wash my hair. Gross.
Mum probably had to ask Sal for a decent photo, given that we haven’t used our camera for years. We haven’t even got a digital one. Dad was the designated photographer in the family. There are photos of me at home. Eight albums full, in fact. All carefully dated and labelled, hidden in the cupboard behind the TV, under a battered Trivial Pursuit box. The (almost) complete childhood of Grace Carlyle. Mum’ll be wishing she’d made more of an effort to keep them up to date now.
Maybe Sal gave them the photo she took when I was asleep on the way back from a gig. The paper wouldn’t print that one though – I look like a corpse. If corpses drool, that is. But she wouldn’t do that to me, would she?
Who am I trying to kid?
Fingers crossed it’s the one from Kirsty’s party. Sal caught me by surprise, calling my name to make me turn around and then snapping away. She thought it was the funniest thing ever, cos she knows I hate having my picture taken these days. I grabbed the camera and looked at the little screen on the back, ready to DELETE DELETE DELETE. But the truth is, I looked kind of OK. My hair looked awesome (but only cos Sal had worked her magic on it earlier) and my eyes looked all twinkly and amused somehow. I looked like someone who good things were going to happen to (someone to whom good things were going to happen. Sorry). Plus, the top I was wearing actually made my breasts look big, which is a feat in itself.
Yes. The newspaper will have used that one. Unless they thought I looked a bit slutty. Dammit! I bet they went for the school one. Urgh. That would be enough to put anyone off their cornflakes in the morning. Let’s hope they printed it really small.
I don’t reckon I’ll be in any of the national papers. People my age go missing all the time, don’t they? Everyone probably thinks I’ve run off with some guy I met on the Internet. Maybe Mum’s done one of those appeals on local telly, begging me to come home, and saying that I won’t be in any trouble.
Nope. I bet she’s actually gone on holiday, or swanned off to London to buy even more clothes she’ll never wear. Seriously, how many pairs of shoes does a woman her age really need? I mean, I like shoes as much as the next girl, but there has to be something wrong with a woman who buys three pairs the same and hoards them in the back of the wardrobe.
No one is looking for me. That’s the truth.
day 12
Slept well. Ethan brought me fresh fruit for breakfast – papaya and melon and mango and pineapple. He didn’t speak to me, and I returned the favour. He came back when I’d finished eating to take away the bowl. He always seems to know when I’ve finished eating. I never have to deal with congealing leftovers, which is good, because bad smells make me gag. I’ve looked around for hidden cameras or peepholes, but there’s nothing. Although I saw this TV programme once where there was a camera hidden in the end of a ballpoint pen. So maybe he’s watching after all, but I DON’T CARE. It doesn’t make a difference. I don’t even care if he reads this. Perhaps I should let him, and then maybe he’d realize that I’m slightly unhinged and