Time is just flying by.

I can't believe it's 5.15pm. I feel like I woke up about an hour ago despite getting up at 8am to go to the doctors. Time is just flying by at the moment which is really nice and exciting but kind of scary too.

Anyway, today has been really productive. I have practically finished Catcher in the Rye, did all my laundry, washed up, cleared out and vacuumed the house. Then I came onto campus and ran some errands so maybe that's why time seems to have raced by me; because I have been so busy.

It's funny, I stayed up last night till about 2.30am working on a piece for Bloc but when I woke up this morning I didn't feel at all tired. I was really into what I was writing last night and, after a few edits, was really happy with it. It's strange though because when I read it over I felt quite sad, because of the subject matter. So I hope it has that affect on people that read it cold. I'll post it at the end of this entry so feel free to comment if you wish.

I'm really excited about all the work I have to do over Christmas and today broke it down into smaller parts so that it seems more manageable. I need to produce three portfolios of 3000 words each, that all need a 1000 critical rationale with them. I need to finalise the content of my website, write a 12 page story following a certain structure and write a 1000 word essay on rhetoric. Ah, it's going to be a good holiday.

Anyway, I have to go and eat before I collapse. Have a read of the below piece and let me know what you think.

Cheers.

Torn Apart.

I hope it never happens to you, to you or anyone that you know. Because if it does then you’ll know the real meaning of heartbreak, just as I do now.

She hadn’t come home after school that day. I’d waited and waited; watched the hands of the clock casually turning as panic rose within me.

4.30pm, still not home. Maybe Denise had picked her up with her daughter, Kate, and they’d got stuck in traffic.

4.50pm, still not home. Maybe she’d gone to a friend’s house and forgotten to tell me.

5pm, still not home. Maybe she was at a Nativity rehearsal that had completely slipped my mind.

Maybe, maybe, maybe; a lot of possibilities but only one fact lay acidic in my stomach - my ten-year-old daughter wasn’t home.

I called the school first.

‘Hello. Yes, this is Trish Taylor. My daughter, Caroline, is in 5C, Miss Davis’ class, and she hasn’t come home. No. Can you tell me if there was a Nativity rehearsal tonight? There wasn’t? Can someone there let me know if she went home with someone else? Thank you. Yes, I’ll hold. Hello? Yes? No. Thank you. Thank you for your time.’

Then I rang Denise; Caroline wasn’t there; Kate didn’t know where she was either but she knew she’d got on the bus; they’d read Smash Hits together, divided up the free stickers.

The moment I hung up, my heart thumped from my chest to my throat making it almost impossible to breathe. I dialled 999, was silent for a moment before I could say the words no parent ever wants to: my child is missing. The person at the other end spoke as if from a script.
‘I’m sorry Mrs Taylor, we can’t file a missing person’s report until the person has been missing for at least 24…’

I hung up. I couldn’t listen anymore; I couldn’t listen to a cold person for whom Caroline was yet another missing child, another number, another column in a newspaper.

Those 24 hours were the longest in my life. Every car that went by, every knock at the door, every phone call, every child laughing outside prompted the same question; was it her?

That night I lay in her bed staring at the clock illuminating the pink bedroom, willing it onwards; time fuelled my imagination making the sheets damp with cold sweat. If I began to doze I woke immediately, swearing that I’d slept for an hour at least. But only five minutes had crept by; minutes that turned into hours so gradually, so painfully that my whole body ached in longing.

When I rang the police the next day I answered all the questions the woman asked. 14th of March 1997, 10 years old, shoulder length brown hair, brown eyes, glasses, probably her school uniform – blue dress, blue cardigan, black Clarks shoes, black tights, a pink Bratz bag, a birthmark on the back of her left leg. She normally walks home from the school bus, usually home by 4pm and I last saw her about 8.30am yesterday.

When I hung up, I went to the bathroom and vomited until the only thing left in my stomach was guilt. This was real; this was happening to me. I lay on the bathroom floor and must have fallen asleep.

When I woke it took a couple of moments to realise where I was, and why. How had I fallen asleep? What if someone had called? I raced to the kitchen, picked up the phone; checked it for messages - none.

For the rest of the day I sat by the phone, picking it up every few minutes to check it was working; to check that someone, anyone could get through and let me know my daughter was safe; that she was coming home.

The day staggered by; no one called. I wondered if I should look for her myself. But then who would be home when the phone rang? I called work; told them I wouldn’t be in; that I wouldn’t be in for the next few days. They were very sorry, they said; if there was anything they could do, they said; they understood, they said. But how could they? No one could understand the pain I was going through; the scenarios that my imagination was creating; the tearing stab in my gut each time I saw something of Caroline’s in the flat.

I started getting calls from friends. I don’t know how they found out; but each time I rushed them off the phone, annoyed they’d occupied the line.

By the fourth day I still hadn’t heard anything.

The fifth day went by, still nothing.

Six days and I barely recognised myself in the mirror; my reflection looked ten years my senior.

After a week I couldn’t bear doing nothing, waiting in the house for calls that didn’t come. So I took the Christmas decorations out of the loft to keep myself busy. I thought if I made the flat look nice, Caroline would know somehow; she would know and she would come home; she would come home and things would go back to normal. I would have my family back.

I placed a stuffed reindeer on top of the television; hung tinsel from the doorframes and a laughing Santa from the clock; put up the artificial tree in the corner of the room and pinned her stocking to the wall. I emptied the five boxes of decorations we had in less than an hour, then walked into her bedroom and sat on the bed. I noticed a piece of blue paper sticking out from under the bed and reached for it with a shaky hand, smoothing it in my lap - a Christmas list. I swallowed hard and remembered last Christmas; it had been our first without Caroline’s father and she’d handled it well, better than I had probably.

‘Next year Mummy,’ she’d said to me, sat by the tree, ‘maybe you’ll have a new husband for Christmas.’

I’d laughed, said that would be lovely - a wonderful Christmas present. But all I wanted now was my daughter in my arms, the smell of her hair under my nose, the contour of her body in the bed I sat on.

Tucking the list into my pocket, I walked out of the house.

The shops were busier than I could bear; every little girl was Caroline and I envied every mother with her child safely by her side. I bought everything on the list and more, the weight making the plastic bags cut into my fingers as I walked to the car. I drove home with a mantra in my head - ‘she’s going to come home, she’s going to be safe, she’s going to come home, she's going to be safe.'

By the time I pulled into the drive it was dark, so I didn’t see them straight away. I got out of the car, opened the boot and took out the bags. I closed the boot with my elbow and that’s when I saw them; two of them, a man and a woman, stood at the door with their hats to their chests. My mouth ripped downwards, my face screwed up; tears burst from my throat and the bags fell to the floor. I ran to them; the woman held me as I shattered into a million pieces, the word ‘no’ falling from my mouth like vomit.

‘I’m so sorry Mrs Taylor,’ she said, ‘I’m so, so sorry.’

End.