MARY GIBSON
The Lost Girl I stood outside a telephone box one gloomy autumn afternoon counting my change. My head and tummy ached as I dialed home. ‘I hate you’, I said to the voice on the other end. ‘Anything else you want to say? ’ my mother replied. I bashed the phone down and dialed again and again, repeating my words till there was no money left. The road back to college was greasy with dead leaves, reflecting the texture of my skin. In the canteen I clung to a radiator, waiting for a spasm to pass and for the heat to give me comfort. Seventeen but felt seventy-seven. I hated being a woman.
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