**
Bright lights blair. Harsh wind blow fiercely. My red hair, dancing. The lights of Las Vegas always blinds anyone that enters its reach. Constant waves of heat spin with the humid wind. The cramped street acts as a prison, holding the light and heat captive. The putrid apartment walls spew ancient musty rainwater. My red hair tries to beat away the scent of mould and slime.

My tender feet keep walking forward, plodding on and on. The end of the street looms before me, coming closer and closer as I venture further in. I turn around. Nothing. Silence seems to leak through every crack in the buildings, ground and every surface around me. My hair keeps dancing crazily, a crazed motion going on and on. From a long way off, right back at the start of Clifton Drive, you could probably see a raging fire. It would be savage, fierce, roaring and rolling. Well, that’s my hair, not a fire. It’s danced it’s way out of its bun in a persistent spaz. No person or force could stop it’s fight.

The lights finally start to dim as I walk over to our apartment. Dark night enclosing me. Maybe it’s candlelight in the lounge. Maybe it’s the musty light in my bedroom. Otherwise… Darkness.

I slam my shoulder against the stubborn door. Slam. Rotten stairs cower behind it, their presence, not wanting to be shown. Not wanting to be seen. The door stands stubborn. No. I slam against the door again. Slam. Creak. A small gap materializes before me. I squeeze through the miniscule gap, dragging my black bag behind me. I stroll forward. Up the foul smelling stairs. One story. Two story’s. Three story’s. I open the faded yellow door. Sour cream walls greet me. No one else.

I walk forward, my feet stepping round the filthy stains on the floorboards. Disgusting hallway opens up to the miniscule living room. No peaceful sights. No warm greeting. Nothing.

The floorboards are covered by an ancient massive red rug. Pictures of Paris, Italy and Spain hang, dark pictures on modest blue walls. Bashful blue curtains cower, but hide the polluted windows,cracks separating the filth. The cracked leather coach stands tall, the old stained coffee table sitting before it. A striped saggy armchair slouches beside the coach, it’s dropping eyes fixed on the old battered television.
Mum made us do up this room first, though it isn’t much of a success. She may of well said that we didn't matter, all that mattered was her and the choices she made. I swear the only things in her mind are herself. No one else.
Her room and the living room are all complete but the hall, the bathroom and my shared bedroom are abandoned. She says the hall is the first out of the three to be completed. No surprises there.

My mum and some man sits on our couch. They cosy up to each other. It’s probably Greg. Or George. Or Henry. Any of “Her Men” really.The loves of her life. Supposedly. **
In the end, I'm not sure though. I don’t care either. His face is concealed by the dim light and my mums face. Her mouth puckers as she whispers into his ear. I roll my eyes and stroll into the box room. Or as my mum calls it, me and my sisters bedroom. As I look back, I see my mum and Greg closer than ever. Two silhouettes made into one.

When I walk in to the cramped room, I find Eleanor. To my right is the bunk bed. To my left, a small leaning chest of draws. Above it, an ancient sooty cracked mirror. A desk is shoved at the back of the room, right next to the foot of the bed, against the pale green walls. Cramped. Everything in my room was already here or was brought at the second hand shop. The cheapest stuff we could find. Second hand. Used.

The bookshelf is next to the chest of draws and the easel is next to the desk. The fluffy, fraying red rug covers the creaking floorboards. The ugly light hangs from the damp ceiling swaying. Creaking. Moving.

Eleanor is painting a beautiful scene on a canvas. The opposite of our agitated state. Rain falls onto a bright umbrella. It looks like a photo. She turns around. My feet keep advancing towards her. Creak.
“Hi.”
Her blonde hair is knotted and untidy. Her face is bloated and wet from salty tears. She gives a broken smile.
“I might be leaving Kim.” her voice sounds choked. “Greg’s uncle, the one mum is with, has a 19 year son. When school ends, I’ll go to live with him. It’s all organised.”
She sounds awful. It’s as if her voice is sandpaper. Rough and harsh. Her blue eyes are shiny with tears and her pale hands are curled into fists. Tears blur my vision and I sniff. A damp smell curls around my nose that I have got so used to. Eleanor may not smell this ever again. School ends tomorrow.
She smiles, trying to be brave. “You get to move. Mum was thinking of moving to Montana. Greg want’s to move to .”

Tears actually fall now. Eleanor could be leaving me, and then I could be moving to Montana and leaving my ballet, my job and boyfriend behind.
“Kimberly.” Eleanor takes me in her arms and hugs me tightly. “ Kimberly. You’ll be alright.”
“Yes. But what about you?’ I gasp. You will be leaving to live with someone you don’t even know! What about your dreams. Where will you be moving to.” She then utters a word I will never forget. A word I will never want to hear again.
“England” Eleanor whispers.

I call Nathan later that night. My voice is thick from tears and my eyes are still damp. My heart feels like it has been snapped in two. My sister is listening to music from her ipod and sketching. I can smell the cheap charcoal and hear the music through her tacky headphones. The ipod was a gift from Mum’s special Greg. I got a phone.

With the phone I got from Greg, I call my boyfriend. When I talk to Nathan, he seems cut off from me. His voice sounds distant and sometimes his answers don’t match the questions. I hang up, my heart aching from the failed conversation to my so called loving boyfriend.


I wake up the next day, my heart still throbbing with every little problem that evolves around me. I stretch from my bed and stand. I stalk through the door into the lounge/ kitchen. While I am at school, Eleanor will be getting married and the start of the after party will happen while I am at work and after work I will only catch the end of the ceremony.

School was torturous. The “in” group of girls gathered round me. They spoke of the things that were just “unfair” in their own lives.
“Mum won’t buy this dress for me…”
“I didn't make the cheerleading squad. I’m so unhappy!”
“I don’t have ANY money!!!”
I felt like replying to all these complaints. To bad. To bad. To bad!

Work wasn’t much better. Fill in a form. Aim for promotion. Work. Work. Work. I leave. The sky dark. Dark like my aching heart. Why did I fill in the form?” The future seems as bright as the night sky. That is, not very bright at all.

To be honest, the ceremony was dull. Dull people. Dull decorations. Dull, dull dull. All I was, was a stranger in a second hand dress. I leave early. Alone.

At home, darkness threatens to suffocate me. The walls seem to press . Getting closer. Closer to me. The darkness brings an aura of evil. Strangling. Suffocating. The creaks of furniture seem to be made by someone. Something in the darkness. I’m scared. Every little piece of the house seems set out to murder me. I flick the light on quick.

I grab my dance bag. The stiff material feels cool against my clammy hands. The scent of deodorant and perfume seems to be stuck to my ballet bag. I wipe a tear from my azure eyes. She’s left. The time is late. Her flight would of left.

I trudge on. Through the haunted building. The pressing walls and darkness don’t scare me any more as I turn off the greying light. Emptiness seems to be worse than the scares I seemed to of been faced with. Out of sheer habit, I check the creaking, rusty letterbox. Inside the ghastly letterbox was a crisp white letter. Addressed to me. Me!

I run all the way to the ballet studio where I dance.

When I reach the studio, I walk through as if it was a normal day. Normal. But it isn’t. Nothing is like any other day I have experienced.

I’m on edge. The crisp white envelope lies in my sweaty hands. My skull aches. My red hair tugs. Hair tied so tightly in a stern, unbreakable bun. I take in my familiar surroundings. The pale yellow walls. The beautifully smooth bench, ballet bags scattered across it. The sinks with mirrors above them. The bathrooms, hidden around a corner. The scent of BO, deodorant and perfume. The sound of soft music drifting through the pink door. Is this where I want to find out yes or no?

I take a deep breath. Where else would I want to open it? I peel the tab off. I breathe in deeply. What’s the answer? My green eyes gaze down. Words jump out at me. Accepted. Glad. Got promotion. More money. My eyes scan back to the top. I read it from the top.

To Kimberly Green,

Georgia’s Boutique have been glad to have you as one of their employee’s. After receiving your application for the promotion, you were already near the top of the list of the many others that wanted the promotion. You have been working with us for thirteen months now and all those months have been superb. You happily put in extra hours and are one of the few workers who we can rely on.

Because of these many reasons, we are with great happiness, able to tell you that you have been promoted! You have got the promotion! This therefore means that you will be working Mondays, Wednesdays and Friday from 4.30-7. In the weekends you will be working from 9-1. You will be receiving more money. We will discuss this issue next Monday.

See you then,
Georgia Fernella- Owner and Boss
Georgia’s Boutique.

My heart seems to literally stop. My mind struggles to work. Nothing. My body. Nothing. But then, from the ashes, a spark. I jump into the air. Yes. Yes! I burst through the door too the spacious dance studio. I spin round and round. I pirouette over and over again.

I see the wooden bar, the white high up windows, the clean cream walls. I feel free. Margaux looks at me.
“Kimberly Green!” She doesn’t sound harsh. Just generally surprised. I mean, I don’t do this every day!
“I was just talking about you! Your ballet exam results came through very highly. You are 16 tommorow and are dancing at the level of a 21 year old! That is very very impressive!! If you are at this level, you are not just good at it, you're extremely talented. I was talking to Maria DaSilva at the Las Vegas school of ballet and she is very interested. She would like you to audition for her school. I will talk it through with your Mum but this is a once in a lifetime opportunity and it is a great opportunity indeed. This is the first time in 19 years this has ever happened to me! Don’t let me down.” She smiles her sweet smile, dimples forming in her cheeks.

Her hair flies as she turns sharply on her heels and walks out sharply. She leaves me in the room, two pieces of news sinking into my brain. An audition. Las Vegas school of ballet. A scholarship! But there was more. A promotion. More money!

I skip home. Halfway to the apartment, I stop skipping. My heart starts to hurt with every beat. Beat. Beat. Beat. I might be moving. Eleanor is gone. Gone.I may not be able to take the promotion, or go to the audition. My life feels as if it’s over.

Everything in my life feels blank since Eleanor left, even with the silver lining of this day . Sometimes the clouds are too dark, the silver lining being shadowed. Eleanor was always there and now she’s gone.

When I get home, my mom's presence doesn’t materialize before me. The normal damp smell has been replaced with the smell of paint and air freshener but even that doesn’t lift my spirits. The clock declares I’ve been gone for two hours. Two hours of decorating and packing. My ears strain to hear even the slightest sound. Nothing. I walk through the newly cleaned hallway. Suddenly my ears strain, hearing a noise amongst the stillness.
“Suprise!!”

Nathan springs from the living room. He’s then followed by a whole group of others, smiling and cheering. In front of me, the newly painted living room is decorated with strings of beautiful fairy lights. The boxes that behold everything from our usually cramped lounge, is stacked in the shape of a castle, a big number 16 hanging over the pile.

The rest of the lounge was bare apart from a stereo, now blasting upbeat music. I walk in a daze through to the kitchen. Drinks and food are on every bare inch of it’s surface. In my mum’s room, all the couch’s are in a semicircle, including my mum’s cheap sofa bed. (Not a bed though. It was now a sofa)

In my tiny room, was a pile of presents. But that wasn’t what made me stare. It wasn’t Mum and Greg either. It wasn’t the photo of our new home either. Even though the new house was located in LA AND was a BIG house! It was Eleanor. Standing there. Real. Existent.
I breathe out one single word.“Eleanor!”