A month has passed. Same old story, really. Eleanor’s been missing more times than I can remember. I wouldn’t be surprised if Ruth had the police on her speed dial. And me? Well, I’ve done nothing about it, really. Not that there is anything I could do.
I went round to see Elle on one of the rare occasions that she was home. I hardly recognised her at first. She’s got so thin, and hasn’t washed for a few days. Her hair is a mess. Because she was wearing a vest-top, I could see bruises and worse covering her arms. Somehow I knew that they covered more than just her arms. She looked at me like I was a stranger, and I knew this was one of the few occasions when she wasn’t high. She was just lonely, afraid and abused. But her addictions pull her to the people she fears, and I guess that they are making her pay for the drugs in some way, maybe not one I’d want to imagine.
I don’t even think she recognised me.