Disclaimer: I do not own the characters that are featured in this from the book Girl, Missing. These characters are owned by Sophie McKenzie. I only own the characters that I have made up myself.

Now I have been waiting ages for this category to be added for ages and I'm so glad that it now is, even if you haven't read the book then you can still read this as it makes sense without reading it. I would like to promote the book Girl, Missing because it is really well written and inspired me to write this. I'm still new to fanfiction so please review and tell me what you think. I am open to advice lol.

Chapter 1

Every wondered what it's like to have a family who hates you? Everything you do is wrong; you're a victim in your own home, always being screamed at. Never being able to do anything right. Never being able to do anything. Because you're a mess and no one cares. You're falling and there's no one there to catch you. Ever wondered what it might be like to have a different family? To have someone who loved you and cared for you. I have. Everyday in my pitiful, meaningless life.

It wasn't always like this. I used to be loved, cared for. Someone used to give a damn about me. But that was a long time ago. Gone are the days when someone read me bedtime stories, tucked me in at night, or even hugged me. I can't even remember the last time anyone said, "I love you". My life wasn't supposed to be like this. When I was little I dreamed of being a pop star. To be famous and to have everyone screaming my name. Right now, plenty of people scream my name, but it's not because they want me. It's because they hate me. What I have done to deserve this life I'll never know. But I have to keep living it. Don't I? Is there a way to end it? Surely I couldn't? No! I'm too weak; I would never go through with it. Although I have been thinking about it a lot recently. What it would be like to die. Ever thought about it? I mean, what would be the best way to go? Topping yourself can go wrong and it's so easy not to die. You would never get another chance. They would lock you away and keep you apart from anything that could give you the slight hope of ending it all. No. That wouldn't work. I don't want to die painfully. I have to deal with enough pain already; I don't think I could take anymore. I wonder if gassing yourself would hurt. You know, like people on TV. They get a car, drive somewhere and stick a pipe or something onto the exhaust and put it through the window. Nothing to it. But there are two problems with that plan. I don't have a car, and I can't drive anyway. So looks like I'm stuck. Well, for the moment.

I don't know you, and you don't know me. I don't know if you want to know me. I'm a screw-up. A failure. In case you hadn't heard. I am a good-for-nothing little brat who deserves to die. I have nothing left in my life. I am completely broken. Right now I'm in my room. I would cry but I have no energy left. Besides what's the point? It won't change anything. It's a waste of tears. No point crying for me. It's too late. My life is already over. I've been mourning it for a great deal of time. I'm sitting on the cold hard floor of my tiny box room. Staring at the worn wallpaper, it's patterned with grey diamond shapes, which fit together perfectly. From one end of the wall to the other there are 327 diamonds. I have counted them many times over the years. I have my back to the door; I'm leaning against my bed. I've learned it's easier to hide this way. When you enter the room you can't see me, you see the opposite side of my bed. The headboard is against the wall connected to the right of the one I stare at. The end faces the wall parallel to it, this wall has a window. It's dirty and grimy but it's still a window. When I'm lying in my bed, I look through it and dream of the life I once had. Dream of a life I could have. Before I silently cry myself to sleep and end yet another dreadful day. I can just fit where I am now, on the floor, staring at my wall and counting diamonds, I sit with my legs crossed and every few hours I have to swap my legs over to sit with my chin on my knees, before the pins and needles get too bad. Then after another few hours I change them back. Sometimes I fold my legs the other way, just for fun. But I don't sit like that for long because it can get uncomfortable. Not that I'm not used to uncomfortable. But why make life harder for yourself? I have counted the diamonds again. There are still 327. Always 327. I start again. One, Two, Three, Four…

THUMP! I hear one of them coming up the stairs. I instantly stop counting at 182 and tense up. They are closer now. Each thump is getting louder, and louder. The floor on the landing creaks. My door slams open. I'm too scared to look around to see which one of them it is. I am frozen, cross-legged, staring at the 183rd diamond on my wall. I know they can't see me, but they know where I am. They are walking nearer and nearer towards my hiding place. I feel the bed move as they sit down. I can hear them breathing, in, out, in, out. These are the moments in my miserable life that I despise the most. When they come to see me. I still can't bring myself to move. I stay frozen. I don't look around but I can tell which one of them it is. He is breathing heavily, as always. I know that if I do look around, I would be looking straight into those dark, dead, staring eyes. The same eyes that haunt me in my dreams. I can feel him staring at me, I stay unmoving. I stare at the 183rd diamond. Hoping that he will just go away. I feel the bed move as he leans to put something down on the unsteady, small table next to my bed. The table creaks under the weight, but luckily for me it doesn't collapse. That would only make him angry. He stands up, turns around, and kicks my bed. Hard. It jolts my head and I feel my neck click. Then, finally, he leaves. It wasn't until this moment that I realise I've been holding my breath. I breathe in and sigh in relief. I wait, and begin counting the diamonds again. 184, 185, 186. I continue counting until I have counted all of the diamonds three times. Then I gradually begin to move. I do this the way I always do. First I slowly un-cross my legs. Then little by little I begin to stand. My legs feel stiff but I force them to move. I hate feeling so dependant on them, but I need the pile of revolting food that is always given to me at this time. I carefully walk around my bed, avoiding the patches in the floor that I know creak. I sit on the space in my bed that he was hours ago. I lift up the plate of scraps and begin to eat.

I can feel the dirt in my mouth as I scoff down the scraps from their Roast Dinner. It may have been warm once, but it went cold way before it got to me, even if I could have moved earlier. It is only when I start eating that I realise how hungry I am, how starving I am. But then I'm always starving, so I'm used to it. I start licking the plate, searching for anything I may have missed in my haste. I pick up the plate and as usual, I creep to the door with it clutching in my hands. I listen again, my head pressed up against the cracked wood. Nothing. They are probably down by the TV right now anyway, watching Eastenders or something; I don't know what's on TV nowadays. TV was part of my old life, many years ago. I warily open the door, and barely step out of my room to put the plate down on the floor. Then I hurry back inside my room, sit on my bed and sigh. My room. My room, the only place left in the world which is mine, where I am supposed to be, where I'm allowed to be. The only place on this planet where I feel safe. I don't know why. They can still get me in here. Still hurt me. But I guess this is my home. This room. It is the only place of my new life I know. My home. I like the sound of that. Home.

I don't know how long I have been sitting here, and I abruptly wonder why I'm not in my space. I swing my legs over my bed and kneel down to get into my cross-legged position in between my bed and my wall. I begin to count again, but I'm sick of counting for one day. I always count, but suddenly I can't be bothered. For years now I have been sitting in this very space counting the same diamonds, over and over and over again. Why? Surely any life must be better than this. This is no life! Why did everything have to change? Why am I being blamed and punished for everything? It's not fair. I cannot be punished for the rest of my life for one mistake that I made many years ago. The time must be about 5:00 in the afternoon. I have got very good at guessing the time, it all depends on the season and where the sun is in the sky, and the amount of light that hits me, from my grimy window. For instance, I am sitting here now and I know it's winter because of the cold I feel at nights. It is just starting to get dark, I can feel the cold coming, when the sun has completely gone in, I will be freezing. They won't, they will have the heaters on and hot water bottles to keep them warm. I'm not allowed any of that. All I have is a thin scratchy blanket on my bed that gets washed about once every three months. Still, I can't complain, I didn't used to get a blanket; I just had to lie on the bed with nothing covering me. I think it was because I gave up fighting; I stopped struggling with them and gave into my fate.

I was right. It is freezing. I get into my bed and wrap the rough blanket around me. I have no other clothes to change into; I will get another set at my door whenever they feel like it. Sometimes they take my clothes when, on the rare occasion that I get a chance to wash, and don't bother giving me anymore so I am stuck with no clothes, for a few weeks. But that doesn't happen often, it's very rare that I get the opportunity to wash. I close my eyes and I am content. Content that another day has ended, and that I have one less day I will have to live through. One less day of pain, of this life. One less day of my own living hell.