Anywhere But Here

Remember Monee

My name is Monee. I’m fourteen years old. I have black hair, brown eyes and dark skin. I am a member of the Frome library although I have never used the card to take out a book and never will. I have no passport, no driving license, no bank account. On my birth certificate my name is stated as: Jane Harding. I have no middle name. I have no address and no number from which to contact me. My name is Monee. I am nobody.
I was taken into custody when I was merely four years old. I have only three memories to call my own. Every thing before my time here- excluding those memories- is a blur.
I like to repeat things. It gives everything a steady within rhythm, a pattern to go by. I live like this, in patterns. The consecutive hours of my day are planned and regulated. The rhythm of my life never changes; its like a song where the same notes are repeated over and over. My name is Monee. I am alone.
When I first came here, I shared my small bunk with another, a boy around the same age as me. He was fair haired and the matrons doted after him as he was the baby Jesus himself. He taught me the greatest lessen I will ever learn, and that is to trust nobody. He taught me how to fake illness: he would put his head on the boiler un till it burned, then he’d push his delicate finger down his throat un till he gagged- I always turned away at this part, although I could still here him choking- last of all he sat huddled up in both our blankets un till a film of sweet plastered his hair to his forehead. I though he was so clever and cunning no fox could beat him. I wanted to be like him. No, I wanted to be him. Once he was gone, I took his place as the cunning one of the lot. He taught me all the tricks of the trade: What times to sneak into the kitchen to get food, which matrons had a soft spot for the little ones, how to break into the masters office and most important of all, how not to get caught.
My name is Monee. I can cry. What I think is the earliest memory I have is one of my mother, of her hands, holding me steady in her lap. Her long nails, well kept and obviously manicured. He skin was pale next to mine, like butterscotch. I don’t know what she smelt of- just that she smelt nice- like what a mother should smell of, juicy apples and rosemary, earthy yet clean. I remember her looking at me with big eyes. I don’t what colour they were- it doesn’t matter- they were looking at me with love and adoration. I thought that maybe she was smiling in this memory but over time I have began to realize, that she wasn’t only looking at me with love but also with sadness. Tears where trickling down her cheeks as she wept above my head. I have grown to hate this memory. I have wished to cast from my mind many times but it won’t go away. My name is Monee. I cannot forget.
My second memory is of a girl, older than me but none the wiser. I don’t remember her looks at all, only that she was taller than me and had a girly high pitched voice. She asked me If I liked Mona but I had no idea who that was. She told me in her high voice that it was a TV program and that everybody new who Mona was. It was obvious I was not everybody as I had no idea what she was talking about. I asked her who Mona was but she didn’t seem to be able to tell me. A little while later we sat in front of a television and she held my small hand. She talked throughout the whole program, whatever it had been. I remember nothing else she said. The only other thing I remember and I remember with quite clarity, is her handing me a stuffed rabbit, its fur was matted and muddy, its pink ears had faded to grey and one of her eyes was almost falling from its socket of stitching. I held it to my chest, as if it was a life force. I loved that rabbit from the moment my hands clasped around its small stuffed neck. I thank that girl in my mind and my prayers everyday for giving me something to call my own. I still have that rabbit- tucked away beneath my bunk- stashed away so no one else can find it.
My name is Monee. I have been here for ten years. I know why they keep everything the same, repeat it all again and again. My whole life they have been brainwashing me. There’s one thing they didn’t count on though, they thought I wouldn’t know, wouldn’t realise what they were doing. Now I do I can bring them down. Of course this is all easier said than done. I will try to explain to you how hard it is going to be: I am sure that after reading this you can remember my name, what if I told you to forget it, don’t even let it cross your mind when I am asking you about it. Impossible, right? Well I’m hoping its not because that’s what I’ve got to do, forget everything they ever told me, forget my whole life.

Prologue – The End
He stared out into the wild storm, protected behind the double-glazed windows and sighed exasperatedly, wishing the weather would suddenly turn and calm. At the same time he wished the exact thing, but for his life. He would have given anything to change it, to turn back the clock. He watched the wind as it tore the trees from the ground and shook the rafters of his house. The wind and hail slammed against his unbreakable windows and made cracks in the frail glass that protected the streetlights, the electricity burst in the air like the lightning breaking up the grey sky, thunder rolled in after the flashes of light in the skies. Water spilled out over the rivers and the water licked at the sides of the pavement threatening to spill over and leak into their homes. The lonely man at the window smiled grimly, unsure exactly why he bothered to smile or to laugh, he thought, when he realised he was giggling hysterically, his body heaved with every burst of laughter, he curled up as they turned to sobs, wracking his body with an ever deepening sorrow that chewed him up from the inside. His cries were in vain because with every choked sob that escaped his lips, the waters spilled over, the rain and lightning broke up the sky, with every second that went by, the world was gradually ending and there was nothing he could do about it, nothing he could do but watch as this once beautiful earth tore itself apart and his heart was torn apart with it.

Chapter One – Bleed It Out
It was a summer’s day, clear skies and thin clouds streaked against the blue as the boy opened his book and began to read. He let himself be adsorbed within its words, letting them enchant him, so then he didn’t have to hear the sounds around him. The hot stuffy classroom, the teachers voice like a monotone, droning on and on. It was the fifth time he’d read this book and occasionally he found himself reciting what the character was about to say just before he read it. He pretended to be looking at his textbook as he turned to the next page. He ignored his classmates, none of whom he would ever think of as mates and absorbed himself into the story, but of course inevitably, just when it was getting near to the end of the chapter, the teacher decided it was time to stop being oblivious and stormed over to the boys desk. The teacher, Mr Lambert, tapped his fingers on his leg with agitation and impatience. He was a tall man, with a furrowed brow, the lines that deepened his face not from age but from spending year after year with a threatening look forever plastered on his face. Now he deepened this look into a harsh scowl as the boy continued being ignorant to his looming presence. Mr Lambert didn’t say anything as the boy’s gaze left the page of his book, his head slowly rising to meet his teacher’s cold grey eyes. The boy’s thin lips curled up into a smile, Mr Lambert fumed, his pale complexion turning steadily redder as the boy failed to suppress his childish giggle.
“Get Out!” The teacher’s hands were clenched at his sides, his knuckled growing steadily whiter in the same rhythm of his now beetroot coloured face. He grabbed the book from under the boy’s hands and through it onto his desk, it landed with an unnervingly loud thud. The boy dug his nails into the table and bit down on his lip, hard. He stood shakily the colour rising slightly to his cheeks. The eyes of thirty school boys followed his every move as he walked without momentum towards the door. Mr Lambert turned and slammed the door behind the boys hunched figure, barely suppressing what his psychologist called his ‘violent tendencies’ and what most other people called him ‘being an asshole’.
Outside the now deadly silently classroom the boy walked up and down, back and forth. He fiddled with the hem of his shirt, pulling at the collar. He twisted the strands of his scraggly black hair, fiddling with anything he could get his hands on. His eyes screamed of the hidden nerves within, although he still had an incredible desire to burst into a fit of laughter. Emotion crashed about inside his green swirling orbs, every feeling at war with the other. He bit his lip again, trying to make it bleed. He leaned against the wall struggling to stop his hands from moving up towards his heavy head to knot his already messy hair. He repeated the same thing over and over as his lip turned red and he smudged blood onto his hands, just bleed it out he bit down again, even harder, bleed it out, bleed it all out…
He sat on the hard, straight-backed chair outside the headmistress’ office, his hands cupped in his lap. He stayed still, staring at the red on his fingertips; it seemed to keep an ever holding interest, blood, and the pain was more than bearable. The door to the headmistress’ office swung open and a women’s head popped out of the doorway. She was far from the typical headmistress’ and many of the students made jokes about her being a porn star as a teenager and she of course new about this, but to many of the teachers disapproval found it highly amusing. She had red bouncy hair and a lively energy about her. A smile was never far from her face and what a smile it was, she could light up the whole school with that smile, with that smile she could get anything she wanted, from men at least.
“Come on in Frankie,” she gave him her trademark smile, showing her whitened teeth. The boy, frank, blushed slightly and looked down at his feet as he followed her into her spacious office. It blared out a friendly atmosphere; the walls were painted red and white matching her hair and pale skin.
“Sit down Frankie,” she pointed to the squishy chair opposite her desk, she sat behind it and looked down on him with a slight smile. Frank looked at the desk; the papers, pen pots, pens and pencils, a toy pink rabbit, a photo frame with a picture of her son sticking out his tongue. Frank’s report lay under her palms on the desk.

That's all i've written so far.