The Runaways (on hold)

Part 1

written by dusty

I Sat by the window with my head in my hands. Lines of scabs could be seen across my wrists. Why should I be allowed to live and Mum not. I wiped away a stray tear. I still wasn't back at school yet because Dad thought it was too early. I had protested but secretly I didn't want to face my friends. They would all restrain from talking about it or even mentioning a word about families or death. Lucy would be the worst. She would put a big smile on her face and do everything she could to distract me when all I would want to do would be to talk to someone about it. To tell them what happened. To tell them how I felt it was all my fault.

I lay down on the window seat. I loved this place. I used to sit here looking out into the garden while Mum would be sitting behind me brushing my hair. It was long and... well... very, very ginger. I would complain about it's colour and how messy it was. “Don't fret little Pheonix,” Mum would say, “ You look just like a beautiful princess.” I would nod happily while She carried on doing my hair. I would soon have two long French plaits down both sides of my head with lots of my hair hanging loose. Mum would fish around in my little wooden jewellery box until she pull out my favourite green clips. “There you go Pheo, they match your eyes” Mum would say. I have the most startling green eyes which completely contrast my hair. My hair is much shorter now. A sort of straggly shoulder length. When Mum died I got a pair of scissors just tied it up and cut it. It had too many memories. Every time I'd looked in the mirror I'd burst out in tears when I saw my reflection. Now that I no longer had waist-length hair it wasn't as bad. I had kept my hair though. It was a nice memory. I had tied ribbons and bows into it and plaited it. It was coiled up beside me and I fingered it fondly.

Suddenly I snapped out of my daydream as I heard someone open the gate to the garden below us. It must be Dad I told myself. I watch him as he appeared around the corner of the house. My Dad was tall, quite handsome, with a head of dark brown hair. I got my ginger hair from Mum. His name, Claspiane, is quite exotic sounding too. Somehow I doubt it's his real name but I have no reason to believe otherwise. Then I saw what he was dragging behind him through the Garden. It's a cloth bag... like the ones you store tents in. I stare after him wondering why on earth he's carrying it when a gust of wind blows open the flap that is holding it shut. When I see what's inside I do a movie worthy double take. I have to stifle a scream. Because inside the bag there is...

… A dead body!