2011-02-23 00:30:02 UTC
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1
There are things that I will miss about our damp flat in Glasgow.
I'll miss when the electricity went off and we had to huddle together on the sofa, shivering under a moth-eaten blanket that Dad tugged out of the hall cupboard. I'll miss my cosy pink bedroom, with the squeaky floorboards and the window looking out onto Clyde Park. I'll miss the smell of sweet scented candles, apple and blueberry and orange and cherry. I'll miss winter, when me and Dad sipped lukewarm hot chocolate speckled with fluffy pink marshmallows, and talked and talked and talked. I'd moan about Amy McWinter and Miss Elberry and homework and tests. Dad would moan about the rent and the landlord and the envelopes that were pushed through the letterbox every morning, filled with rows of black printed numbers.
There are also a lot of things that I won't miss.
Like the batty old man who lived downstairs, and always used to bang on our door and shout that we were playing music too loudly, at 2 o' clock in the morning when we were fast asleep. I won't miss Clyde High School... or Amy McWinter.
Every class has a popular girl, right? Well Amy was probably the most popular person in the whole school. Even the teachers simpered over her. She had glossy blonde hair, with a neatly trimmed block fringe. The kind I'd always wanted to have, shiny and neat. She was effortlessly pretty, with big blue eyes and long eyelashes and pale white skin. She never got a spot or a pimple or any blemish at all. Amy McWinter reminded me of a perfect Barbie doll.
She wasn't pretty inside, though. She was horrid horrid horrid.
I didn't get good marks, simply because of her. I was at the very bottom of the class. She prodded her sharp plastic ruler right into my back, she'd kick my chair so I couldn't concentrate, she'd mumble cruel words into my back. She'd pick on me in the playground too, laughing at my shoes, my bag, my second-hand school uniform, my haircut.
That's why I pushed her.
Amy was saying stuff about my mum. Horrible stuff, that made my cheeks burn and my eyes prickle with tears. She was standing at the top of the staircase, the big one that spiralled round and round and round, like one of those big green slides you get a fairground.
'No wonder she killed herself,' Amy hissed, her eyes shining. 'Having you for a daughter.'
'She didn't kill herself,' I said uncertainly, not quite believing it
myself. 'She left. She ran away. She'll still alive somewhere, probably living it up in a fabulous lifestyle as an actress, with a great big mansion
and...'
'We all know you're a little liar,' Amy snorted. 'A mansion! Yeah, right. If she's alive, which I doubt, she's probably sleeping in a doorway somewhere, begging for spare change.'
'She was a writer,' I lied, having one last attempt. 'So she'll probably be in a caravan, somewhere, because she told me she has to travel a lot. A really nice one, with a double bedroom and a bathroom and a living room and a...'
'Double bedroom?' Amy demanded. 'Why would she need that? It isn't like she's asked you to stay with her, sleep for a night. Is it?'
'She doesn't know our address. We've moved heaps and heaps of times. We've travelled all around the world, in fact,' I said lightly, shrugging slightly. 'She probably thinks about me every day, longs to see me, but can't because she...'
'That's rubbish,' Amy suddenly cries, taking a step towards me. I flinched, even though I knew she wouldn't actually physically hurt me. I could beat her in a fight, easy. I was small and skinny but I certainly knew how to punch and kick.
Amy continued, her words sharper than any hit she could give me. 'You live in that minging council flat, near the Kiosk, with mould on the windows and those big leafy vines climbing up the bricks. You've lived there since you were a baby, since she left. Of course she knows your address! She just can't be bothered. Doesn't want you, obviously. But who would? Not me, not anyone. Especially not her...'
It was then when I lost it.
She was on the top staircase, her fingers resting loosely on the banister. It only took one sharp push to get her flying down the stairs, shrieking and screaming, landing with a bump on the polished marble floor.
I looked down at her, sprawled across the floor, missing one Rocket Dog pump, her golden hair webbed across her face. One hand was outstretched, her fingers clenched into a fist. I waited for her to get up, to yell, to get me in trouble. But she didn't. She remained still, her face pale, her eyes closed, as if she was in a peaceful sleep.
I screamed.
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THIS