The bus drove on, in I have no idea what direction, further and further away from my family, house, neighbourhood and life.
Further and further away from the cruel fate that had been meant for me.
And I didn’t look back once.
That was two years ago, and today I sit, just about to go to work, finishing my breakfast in the lonely house as the rest of my housemates had left before me, when I picked up the milk carton and distractedly flipped it round to view today’s lost soul.
HAVE YOU SEEN THIS PERSON? The headline screamed out as usual.
‘No.’ I muttered to myself, ‘I never see these people. Whoever does?’
But I glanced at the photo anyway.
And found myself staring at my own image printed on the back of a milk carton.
At first I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me.
After all, I wasn’t missing.
But the more I stared at the picture, the more it was me, and the more I begun to doubt whether maybe I was missing.
Then it dawned on me.
I was.
I never did know until I was twenty seven and I accidentally ran into my mother one day that all I had seen that day in her room when I was thirteen were the plans for my new bedroom in the attic of our old house.
No, not a prison that would see me live out my last days starving in darkness, but a bright, sunny room, the size of the whole house for me to call my own.
And I never knew until then that they had not forgotten to book the jukebox, they had instead booked a DJ and huge disco set, to set up in the attic, as a surprise for me.
I never knew until then.
But by then it was too late.
For I was missing.
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