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...tice: Like if my head was a house it would be full of bricked-up spaces, all piled high with stuff I've consciously decided I never want to see or think about again. I manage, mostly, not to.

This is a joke.

    "Ok," I say aloud. "You got me. Come out. I'm sick of playing this game. You come out now because if I have to come looking you better pray I don't find you!"

    Silence.

    But what else can I try? I now just want to leave, I want to be out of Mr.Hobart's depressing filth. I want to be home. I want a shower to wash away the stench and awfulness of this place. I want it behind me. To hell with him. I don't care where he's got to - he can stay there. I'm done.

    I take two steps, heading out of the bathroom, and the floor gives way under my feet.

Tear in the fabric

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