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door for a second, instead of slamming the front door when I heard, ‘Grace, wait a sec …’ But I didn’t. One more second in her presence would be too much to bear.

So I didn’t say bye, and I didn’t leave a note. I just didn’t see the point. Suicide notes are lame as, anyway. And if I had left a note, then everyone would now be thinking I’m dead. Which I’m most definitely not (yet).

I caught the bus into town. Sat right at the back – unusual for me. My last ever bus journey, or so I thought. Come to think of it, that may well still be the case. As bus journeys go, it was pretty standard. A woman with loooong grey hair sat in front of me. The lank locks hung over the back of her seat, and the straggly ends brushed my jeans. It was revolting. Long hair after a certain age is just not an attractive feature. Thankfully Icky Hair Woman got off the bus before I started gagging.

I felt kind of peaceful after she’d gone. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. I was going to do it – I was really actually truly going to do it. This was it. Oh, they’ll be sorry … The sing-song voice in my head made me smile.

I’m not sure how I feel about the yes-you-really-were-minutes-away-from-topping-yourself thing now. But I’m not ready to examine my feelings too closely. Not quite yet. It’s like I have a bandage wrapped round me. I sort of know why it’s there, but if I unravel it and actually see the festering wound underneath, all yellow and oozy, I may just lose my mind.

I got off the bus and skipped into an off-licence. I spent a good few minutes choosing my tipple. Went for gin, which is strange, cos I hate the stuff. It reminds me of Dad. So I headed towards the counter and the guy had the worst case of acne I have ever seen (apart from Scott Ames in Year 9, but at least that cleared up and now he’s looking pretty fine). Then the most ridiculous thing happened: I got ID’d! Now you have to understand that this never happens to me. I’ve been buying alcohol since I was fourteen, for Christ’s sake. Maybe it was a sign from God: ‘Grace, you can kill yourself if you really must, but I’m not going to make things easy for you.’ I gave Acne Boy my best you-have-got-to-be-kidding-me look and said, ‘You have got to be kidding me. I’m twenty-two years old! Do I look like a kid?’ He just pointed to the sign that said, ‘If you look under 25 blah blah blah blah blah …’ I wasted a couple of minutes spinning him a line about having left my ID in my jacket, and having left my jacket at home cos of the unseasonably warm weather we’ve been having. Still no sale. Irritating. But I suppose you’ve got to get your kicks somehow when you’ve got the most disgusting, pus-ridden excuse for a face, and no hope of getting sex (ever). I flounced out of the shop in an appropriately flouncy, indignant fashion, popped into the shop next door and bought exactly the same bottle two quid cheaper. So I guess God wasn’t sending me a sign after all.

As I walked down the street with the bottle clutched under my arm, I passed a couple about my age. They were holding hands and laughing. Go away go away go away! The guy pushed the girl up against a shop window and kissed her. I missed being kissed like that. I walked on, nearly bumping into a gang of townie boys with shiny shoes and questionable hair. One of them turned and shouted to me, ‘Cheer up, love. It might never happen!’ I grinned at him. Oh, I think it will …

I came to the park gates. My dad used to take me there when I was little. I’d feed the ducks, then run around like a crazy person. Dad would chase me and pretend to be a zombie. And then he’d push me on the swings – so hard that I was sure that I’d go right over the top of the crossbar, but I’d still shout for him to push harder. I never got bored of that.

After Dad was gone, the park started to mean other things to me. Things I’m glad he wasn’t here to see.