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--RosieOnTheRun (from reality)--

United Kingdom

What am I meant to say here? That I'm an inspirational young writer wanting to share her talent with the world? Coz no. That's not me. I'm just a insignificant, invisible, voice. Trying to write in a pool of fears, and hoping the ink won't smudge.


November 21, 2017

It is dark. An all consuming dark that seems to cling to everything, the shadowy grey sillouted cars and the undistinguishsble shapes, bushes maybe, that line the street. I was afraid of the dark, when I was younger. I used to have a butterfly nightlight  that I left on all night. They must have smashed that, along  with everything else. I don't need a nightlight now. I'm still scared of the dark though, of the things that hide in it, but now it it is my only protection, my only hope of escaping from Them. There's a single street lamp still on, it's casts a thin puddle of light on the pavement below and I skirt around it, clinging to the shadows, becoming the shadows. I'm  wearing a hoodie, black with the hood pulled up over my head. Even in my fear some small part of me can't help laughing at the cliche; that of a teenaged girl in a hoodie in the dead of night with  school rucksack on her back.

my phone is dead. I pull it out and stare listlessly at the no battery symbol before the screen goes blank. That's when it hits me. I am not in a character from a book. It's not like the games me and Gemma used to play of the school girl who ran away. This is real. I want to cry but I don't. I keep walking. Pretending I know what I'm doing, where I'm I going, but inside I am so so lost, and I welcome the rain that starts to pour down, down, down, making my black hoodie sodden and the bag on my back sag.

Gemma's sitting on the window sill in her bedroom. Her feet rest on the radiator and her school bag lies discarded on the floor. She's staring at her phone. Refreshing snapchat. She's not sure why she's bothering. Lucy had told her she wouldn't be using snapchat, she'd deleted all her social media accounts in case she could be tracked. Still, Gemma refreshs Snapchat one more time before turning her phone and throwing it unceremoniously across the room. She closes her eyes and leans her head against the smooth cold glass of the window. It suddenly seems so ludicrous. A 15 year old girl on the the run from the government. Deleting her snapchat account so she can't be tracked.

I'm standing outside Tesco's. The neon sign above my head spells T sco, and the remaining letters flicker feebly. I lean against the motionless  door of the closed shop and try to think .I try to concentrate, to become the calculating, calm and cold version of myself I was yesterday as I planned out the route on my phone and hid my bag beneath my bed. But that me was playacting. The real me is lost. Standing alone in the rain outside Tescos.

I'd had it all planned out. I was going to visit my brother Jack in London. When I was a kid Jack had been my hero, my big brother who could solve everything. I think part of me still believed that if I managed to get to Jack he would sort it out for me. I realise now how stupid I was. What would Jack do? What could he do? At the most he would let me stay for a day or two. Before handing me over to Them.  

There are some of Their patrol people behind behind me. I don't turn around but I can hear the sound of their boots and the soft hiss of muttered conversation. I hear the deadly cli-ck of a gun being loaded. I move further into the shadows, clinging to the wall. I stare unseeingly at my dead phone . Their closer now. I glance at them. Trying to act natural. It's just an ordinary street payroll team. But there's something different about them. Normally the soilders  walk relaxed, chatting with their guns slung forgotten over their shoulders and cups of costa coffee in their hands. Not this patrol though. This patrol are marching. They stare straight ahead, guns cupped in their hands, fingers on triggers. One of them sees me. He's young. Tall. He seems inexperienced compared to the rest ignoring them, scuttling sometimes to catch up with their practised strides. And you can tell he doesn't like the feel of the gun in his hands. He doesn't turn his head but his eyes flick towards me for a moment. We stare at each other. His eyes are blue I notice. Tinged with grey. I can hear my heart pounding as a second stretches to an eternity. Any second now he will nudge the shoulder next to him, and everything will be over. Bit he doesn't. He smiles, looks away and keeps on marching.

John is only 19. The same age as Lucy's brother. He's tall with ginger hair newly shaven to meet army standards. He never wanted to join the army. This time last year he'd been writing his personal statement to send of the Cambridge university. He should be there now but instead here he is, marching through the streets at night with a bunch of war junkies. John had spotted the girl straight away. She was trying way to hard to hide and she could see the terror in her eyes fixed on her blank phone screen. He almost laughed at the black hoodie that did the opposite of blend in and the way she hugged the wall. This girl was obviously a beginner. He himself had had a lot of practise at school. He almost laughed, but he didn't, it probably would have meant prison. He knew he should tell Wolf, the leader of the mission, but what would that mean for the girl? Prison?  Death? And anyway, just because someone has ruined his life didn't mean he should ruin hers. Instead John gives the girl the smallest of smiles and keeps marching.

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