9:35

Wake up facing the wall and roll over. Your back is there, facing away from me, as far away as you could possibly be. The morning has dawned grey and cold as it filters through your curtains, and your clock blinks green and accusing. It is 9:35. Damn. I have to go, have to be there at 10 but I don't know how to get to the high street; I didn't think that one through really. I leave your room without looking back, I know you are asleep but paranoia whispers gently to me that you are awake and waiting for me to go, you will be feeling more guilt than I, I allow you your sleep even if it be just so as to avoid talking to me. Oddly I feel nothing. No regrets or confusion, surely I should be angst-ridden. Living the stereotype, acting as expected. My lack of worry worries me; that's better. We all need something to ponder of a day.
So quietly I go up the stairs you led me down last night, painful feet into last night's too high shoes discarded on the way. Fresh make-up, but I still look dishevelled. Dehydration. I fill a plastic beaker with water from the tap and I leave the house quietly. I feel fine. I have a good sense of direction and I know I am going the right way although I have never been here before. It strikes me that to passers by I am easily read. Look at the way I am dressed too smartly for the day, the way I am walking as one who only a few hours before had lost balance and reason, the way I hold my water unashamedly- a makeshift, borrowed weapon against the after effects of the alcohol. But look at my lack of worry, passers by assume I am a student, and in the few extra years this grants me lies the all important shift of judgement. For all they know I am simply living like we do. For all I know you are now emerging from your room, feeling bad, and assuming I am feeling worse.

When I have time I think about last night, well aware it was ill-advised but not caring. Nothing is bothering me apart from the idea you might think that it was. You may think I am weak, you may think I am immature, or that I cannot cope with decisions made. Sixteen it seems is an odd sort of age, the fast coming seventeen will probably be no better. Any feelings I have demoted to puppy-feelings, teenage hormones and faux-maturity, and where faux-maturity is expected faux-maturity will be seen. Any sadness immediately and joyously labelled by those who would deride it for mere teenage feelings. Sadness, therefore, must be avoided at all costs, in public at least. Which is why I am ashamed of the fact you saw me cry; that is my regret. At least I have one, which makes more sense to me than this morning's lack of anything.

My lasting memories, as the days begin to wash over what has been, are of the cold air as we sit in a hot tub, how I look up and wish there were stars in the sky, not just that haunting moon, gauzed over with the chilliest clouds. And your comforting kiss as you forget at last what has been on your mind all night: that I am a friend's little sister, younger than you, drunk on white wine and freedom, easily led. Little sisters are not an option, we are out of bounds in the extreme. It makes me feel good though, that for a while at least I was your equal.
I wish there had been stars out, to remember me by. Or to remember you.