Slated

It is one thing to ask questions; what do you do with the answers?

Use the fear; feed the anger.

...to form something greater than the sum of its parts.

I was told very sternly at the hospital to avoid boys at all costs. Mess up your levels." "Oh, they do that!" Amy laughs. "Probably best to leave them alone for a while. The secret, though, is to start with one you're not that bothered about." What is the point in that?

And wait for the bus in grey drizzle, arms folded tight around myself, shivering against cold that falls from the sky and sinks deep in my bones.

But soon I forget all they are being and doing and saying, and stare out the window.

He finds a tissue in his pocket and holds it out. I press it against my lip. Pull it away and look at it. Bright red, though not much of it. I've had worse. Have I?

A high tower, like Rapunzel's, but this has no windows, nowhere to lower my hair.

And think about things, I do: late that night. All through school the next day, wandering to classes, unaware of my surroundings.

No. I remember. So long as I don't think about it too much, my hands and feet take over; some memory locked into muscle that my brain has nothing to do with. I know how to drive. And I'm better at it than he is.