You took my heart, could I please have it back?

[3] You took my heart, could I please have it back?

THANK YOU TO EVERYONE WHO HAS FANNED, COMMENTED AND READ MY STORY!!! IT MEANS THE WORLD TO ME!! THANK YOU SO MUCH!!!!!

You'll meet the guy in this one. Don't hate him. Please.

.:Story Start:.

I opened my eyes groggily on Monday morning, dreading the day. The first day of school. The first day of torment, pain and laughter. Laughter at me. I was tempted just to stay here and not move, pretend I was still severely injured and not get out of bed. But I knew I had to go.

I yawned and threw back my bed covers, stretching, and winced slightly as I stretched the stitches in my shoulder. I rubbed my eyes and plodded down the stairs, avoiding an incapacitated dad who was sprawled across the hallway with a pile of vomit near him. Fighting the urge to throw up myself, I hurried into the kitchen, closing the door behind me.

I poured myself a bowl of cereal - courtesy of Mr. Collins - and sat down to eat, although I didn't have a great deal of appetite. Far from it. I felt sick thinking about school, about the other students, about the 'cool gang' who always managed to find a way to pick me out of the crowd, although I was never in a crowd in the first place.

I dropped my spoon in my half eaten cereal. Let the cornflakes go soggy, I thought. I don't want them anyway. Pushing the bowl away from me, I leaned forwards and rested my head against my arms, so I was practically laying on the breakfast bar. I closed my eyes and forced myself to think of something other than impending doom.

The knock on the door startled me, and then I remembered it was only Mr. Collins. I scraped back my bar stool, opening the door into the kitchen. The smell made me gag - but at least he wasn't conscious. I picked my way carefully across the hall and opened the front door.

Sure enough, Mr. Collins was standing there, his golden brown hair sparkling in the morning light.

"Morning, Liz. How're you?" he asked, stepping inside and grimacing at the sick that was on the floor.

"Crappy," I replied, leaning against the wall. "I don't want to go to school,"

"We've already had this conversation, Liz. If you don't go, you can't be sure that you won't make new friends." I sighed. When was he going to understand that it just wasn't going to happen?

I cringed at the sight of my dad lying in the middle of the floor, gesturing helplessly.

"Could you give me a hand?" I asked, feeling slightly bad.

"Sure," he replied. Together, we lifted my father's thin, wiry body upstairs and heaved him onto his bed, which was rarely used. I asked for a minute to get showered and dressed, and Mr. Collins agreed, heading downstairs to the kitchen.

I stepped into the bathroom and stripped, before stepping under the running water and savouring the feel of warm water down my back. My bandages were protected by a plastic material. I rubbed my hair with shampoo and rinsed it off, letting my just-below-shoulder-blade length brown hair slap against my back. I washed myself, tenderly pressing the bruises on my face to see how much they hurt. A lot, was the answer.

Finished, I turned off the water and grabbed my towel, wrapping it round me. I tried myself quickly before I got cold and dashed into my bedroom, pulling on my underwear and some socks. I grabbed a pair of jeans and a t shirt, and then threw on a hoodie for good measure. I brushed my hair with an ancient hairbrush and pulled it into a ponytail. I didn't take much time dressing - I don't care what people think of how I look. I had a no make-up policy anyway.

I walked downstairs and was relieved to see that Mr. Collins had somehow disposed of the vomit in the hall. I stepped into the kitchen and waved shyly at him, sliding onto a barstool. My unfinished breakfast was gone, to be replaced by a plate of toast and a mug of hot chocolate.