Grace pulled on her school's summer uniform. Black shorts and a white shirt, with a black tie. She threw a grey cardigan over the outfit just for a bit of warmth, seeing as it was seven in the morning and the sun wasn't fully at its peak yet.
"Bye mum, bye dad, bye Tony," Grace said, pressing the soles of her feet into her tennis shoes and leaving the house.
She walked briskly to school, five minutes tops, and met up with one of the only people she felt comfortable around, Callum Jackson. Seven foot of pure care for others, with a slight tinge of sass, summed up Callum perfectly. "Hey bitch," he muttered as Grace walked through the school doors.
First class, music. Grace hurried along the corridors and opened the music room door. Mr Kingston, thirty years old, divorced, two kids, obsessed with music, smiled as she approached her seat.
No one in this class either threatened nor spoke to Grace, so it wasn't exactly Hell. She didn't need to care about what she said or did because no one would judge her enough that she could care.
"Okay, favourite bands... And go," Mr Kingston said. He took the register as people said what bands they loved.
The mos popular was One Direction or 5 Seconds of Summer. Some people said Bring Me The Horizon, others said bands that were unrecognisable. Grace said The 1975.
"Good choice," Mr Kingston said, closing the register. "Are they not a bit... old, I guess, for you?"
"How do you mean?" Grace asked.
"Well, you know a few of there songs are about the usage of marijuana, they drink, smoke on stage. Sort of, I'd say, for a very selective maturity."
Grace agreed. "They're unique, interesting. They don't really care how people think of them and I like that."
Mr Kingston nodded his head and they started the lesson.
Six hours later Grace was back home with the front door locked. She didn't want a repeat of what had played the night before.
Grace went to her room and played The 1975 through her speakers. Her phone started buzzing. Annoyed that it was ruining her musical embrace, Grace stood up and picked it out of the speakers slot.
She stopped. She looked over the texts. She reread the texts. They were all unbelievably harsh. There were things like 'you fat slag', 'go die', 'nice choices, slut', 'I didn't think it was possible to call someone a whore who is a virgin, but look at you'.
Grace held in her tears for as long as she could, but soon she couldn't help herself and they came flooding out. What was going on? What had she done wrong? It was always nothing.
Always nothing. Just being her had turned everyone against her.
"She said, it's your birthday..." Grace sung along with Matty's relaxing voice.
Grace wanted everyone to like her so bad after those texts, but how? How do you change the minds of people who can't think? You can't.
It got to the point where Grace ended up wanting Jack round for comfort. He arrived, not drunk like he was the night before. He didn't apologise, just led the way to Grace's room and he sat on the bed.
"What's wrong?" he asked her, he noticed her puffy eyes "You look all... you know."
"Look," Grace handed him the phone.
He just shrugged. Shrugged. Not a word, just a shrug. Grace nodded at his response and suddenly felt an anger even more than she had the night prior.
"Get out!" she yelled. "Get out! GET OUT!"
"Wow, calm the fuck down," Jack said, standing up.
"GET OUT OF MY FUCKING HOUSE!"
Jack reached out and slapped her across the face. Grace left her mouth gaping open at what he had done. She started filing thoughts through her brain, rape, abuse, she needed none of this. "You dirt-bag," she said.
He spat. Jack spat on her before slapping her again. "Calm the fuck down."
And that drove Grace straight over the edge. She reached up to him and started beating into his chest. Soon her mother appeared and asked what was going on. Finally Jack left.
That's it. I'm done. I'm done with bitches at school, I'm done with my dad, I'm done with Jack. Tony and my mother are what are keeping me sane, but now I'm too far. I'm fucking done with it all.
I'm not going to kill myself, I can't let my mother feel any worse than she probably already does. Her and dad were getting on fine for a solid month, why do things need to change?
But that's just me done.
I threw some things into a denim styled boho backpack. I didn't even know if I had taken the right things. Some clothes, some make up, a hairbrush including bobbles, my phone, a charger, some body spray, as much money as I could find around the house (a great big £394) from saving up, and last but not least, a packet of Marlboro Lights cigarettes and a The 1975 handmade lighter.
My dressing table was easy to climb over as I put one foot onto the window ledge. It wasn't cold, so I threw on a pair of high waisted, blue denim shorts with rolled up bits at the bottom, a black thick-strap crop top, black military style boots and a red and black open buttoned checkered shirt with sleeves rolled to my elbows.
I climbed onto the drain-pipe and pushed myself out, loosing my grip. I landed on the grass in my front garden in a roll. My bag fell off my back. It was quite a sore drop considering the height, but I simply pushed myself up and grabbed my bag again and threw it onto my back. My leg had a large scrape going from my thigh to my calf, running down the side. I tried to wipe away any bits of skin that had come off but it wouldn't work, so I just left it there.
And finally, I blew a kiss to my house and started off down the street, completely unaware of where I was going.