Runaway

The next morning Lucy is shaking you away.

“Pip, Pip get up girl you’ve going to miss breakfast.”
You open your weary eyes.

“We’ll save you a seat,” Lucy says before turning and walking out.

You get up and get dressed quickly in new clothes. Lucy might not care, but Ella would notice.
You slip on a pair of skinny jeans, one of the only items in the bag that didn’t come from a charity shop- again Ella would sense this with her fashion six sense- and your favourite top. It’s a long black t-shirt saying ‘Tramp Stamp Club’, it was a late birthday present from your older brother.
You remember your aunt turning her nose up and declaring it unsuitable. Your mother had just laughed at the time but it had been a stressed laugh, and for that reason the t-shirt had ended up buried at the bottom of your chest of draws.
To keep yourself warm you grab your plan white zip up hoodie and on your feet the Primark canvas tennis shoes.

Finally it was time to address your face. Months of sleepless nights and stress had paled your skin and put deep black bags under your eyes.
You pulled at the skin under them, why are they there. The last haunting remnant of who you where etched on your skin for everyone to see. You scrabbled desperately in your bag from your makeup; with each second without it you could feel your heartbeat racing, your breath hitching. Finally you find the small black bag. You pull the foundation out and smooth it over your face, trying to coax your skin into submission. You finish with powder and a hint of blush. Looking in the mirror you sigh discontentedly. You look to perfect, too much like the girl you where in encouraged to be. Suddenly you remember the way they, your mother and your aunt, used to tut at the girls in town, the ones in skinny jeans and thick eyeliner. The ones who used to sing loudly together, who swore and laughed without any concern for the people around them.

Smiling with anticipation you bring the eyeliner up to your eyes and draw thick rings. It starts to transform you; you run your hands through your hair messing it up. You laugh childishly, revelling in the chance to break out of the confines of ‘proper’ that your mother’s anxious need to conform bound you in.
You didn’t look like a small town girl anymore. With your new hair and your new look you barely recognised yourself. When people started to come looking they wouldn’t find you. Well not until the dye faded and the eye liner ran out. You shake your head as if to shake the bad thought away.

“Freedom,” You mouth at the mirror. “Is bliss.”

You smile at the reflection, the new hair, which last night was so terrifying, fits now. You run a hand threw you hair and then run down the hall to breakfast.