Girls Astray. [Complete]

Lolita: The girl no one sees

5pm

Turning the key in the rusty lock, my heart beats as I glance over my shoulder to check that the creepy guy from two doors down isn't lurking around the apartment again. My shoulders drop as a sigh of relief pours from my throat, he's nowhere in sight, for once.

The lock clicks and the door finally whimpers and groans to an open.

"Mum?" I call out, even though the lights are off, even though the rug's in the exact same position I left it in this morning and even though Mum hasn't been home before 5pm in about 10 years. I still always check. Old habits die hard, I guess.

I flick the light switch, waiting for the bulb to sluggishly fill the room with light. But the room remains in darkness, of course it does.

Hastily I scurry into the kitchen and flick the next switch.

The bulb slowly flickers and casts shadows across the room, until the room is covered with dim light. Better than nothing I suppose.

My stomach growls as if it knows we're in the kitchen. I peer into the fridge even though I know no one's touched it since this morning.

One block of what appears to be cheese with an extra dusting of mould and – yep, half eaten pizza, with what looks an extra topping of fur? I think I'll give that a miss.

Who doesn't enjoy toast for dinner?

5.30pm

This used to be when I watched cheesy Australian soaps. You know the type- whiney pretty girls and distant mean hot guys that go to the beach a lot. I know it's corny but there's something comforting about watching predictable storylines at the same time every day, isn't there?

Instead I stare at the blank space where the TV used to be. Dad took it a few weeks back, and apparently no one's thought to replace it.

The clock ticks monotonously as I watch the blank space. Each hand slowly creeping round the clock face, each tick getting louder and louder...

6pm

At least I have my laptop to distract me, even without the WIFI I can work on some 'That Girl' material.

But what? My idea factory that was apparently so fruitful went out of business a long time ago. I should be grateful, the site got big, we make money from it now. But at what cost? I can't pretend that I'm interested in things that don't matter, things that mean nothing, for the sake of a few views. Is this what my future will be? Writing about stuff that signifies nothing. Becoming someone who means nothing, who does nothing other than be a pretty girl, until I'm no longer pretty.

I glance over at the family portrait. Dad's still in it, he looks handsome there, a twinkle in his blue eyes. Mum looks older than her years. The picture was taken years ago, I was still in primary school. I know my Mum is beautiful, she won every beauty pageant when she was my age. We have the same big brown eyes and the same white blonde hair. But she looks faded somehow, she looks thin, gaunt- tired. Really tired. No one calls her beautiful anymore. I look back at my Dad in the picture- he doesn't look tired, he doesn't look like he has a care in the world. The two blonde girls smile sweetly, arms wrapped around each other's frail little bodies, both dressed in pink. We could be twins from a distance- but if you look close enough you can see the differences. One of us isn't quite there behind the eyes, one of us had checked out, even then, we knew what our family was. It certainly wasn't picture perfect. And now-

Suddenly the door creaks and moans once more- I'm not alone- the tap tapping of feet fills the silent room.

Light taps, not my mother's heavy boots clomping on the ground... I swallow the saliva that's building up in my mouth and grab the nearest thing to me before creeping behind the door. My whole body is on standstill, hyper alert, flight or fight mode truly switched on as the tap tapping gets closer and closer, quicker and quicker, faster and-