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| Runaway Blog #4: Music and Hair Dye
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I can’t believe I let Lily talk me into dying my hair. It’s really blonde and sort of…weird. I like it but it’s so odd. How did she ever do it? I liked my hair, brown and wavy. It suited my bohemian image.
“You don’t want to be bohemian, do you, babes?” she asked me as she rubbed the bleach into my hair. Emily was sat on the edge of my bathtub, smoking.
“Do you mind smoking in my bathroom?”
“It’s not your bathroom, is it, though,” Emily blew smoke rings.
Lily cut it; she’s pretty good. It looks quite professional. She only charged me £7, and that was to pay for the dye. Emily then insisted on taking some photos of me for her University project…she’s doing Photography and Media. So I put them up on here for everyone to see!
It’s really nice, I like it. I can pretend to be like some kind of Myspace Teen Queen and backcomb it and wear bows in it and team it with leopard print. It also means that nobody can find me.
Only three days until I start my new job, and I’m making the most of it. Last night was pretty amazing. We hung around the stage door at the end and I totally met one of them. I wish I knew who he actually was. I was pretty rat-arsed by that point and I can’t really remember which one I met. But I met one of them, which is pretty cool. So.
Dave walked in, like, woah. He also says Jake was asking after me when they met up. I’m meant to meet Nick tonight.
I was on the news again today, and they gave a phone number out for people to call if they had any information as to my whereabouts. They changed the photo, it’s quite a recent poser one. I’m really scared they might catch me, because they’ll make me go back home.
I’ve never told anyone this, let alone the Internet, but…
My parents used to hit me a lot. Beat me, even. Particularly my mother. In bad fights, they send Maisy up to her room and beat me to a pulp. I had bruises all over my back, my legs, and my arms. They told the school I was clumsy. They said I’d fallen down the stairs when she broke my collarbone. My dad tended to back off, but my mum hit me. She called it discipline; the rest of the world called it abuse.
I called up Childline once, and they followed it up. I told them all about the abuse. But they had no evidence. Mum lay off for a while, the bruises faded, Maisy couldn’t be my witness, and Dad wouldn’t talk. I had nobody to rely on.
I can’t go back there. I just can’t. You can never understand how desperate I am. |
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Posted by gingerdreamland on 2008-01-31 11:34:27 | Rating: | Views: 85
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