I walk out the school doors, clutching my books protectively to my chest. Around me, the chanting starts.

Ugly.

Weird.

Smart-ass.

Suck-up.

Strange.

Alien.

Bitch.

I close my eyes and imagine I am standing on the top of a fresh green hill. A terrible monster lies before me, a hydra, with heads taking the shape of Candice-the-cheerleader, Nathan "king-of-hotness", the school councillor…all those who hate me. It is dead. And I slayed it with the shining sword in my hands to rid the realm of evil.

I smile, my eyes still closed.

"Look at her. Off again. Freak."

I open my eyes and look at the speaker. Lily. The one who was supposed to be my friend. She gives me a look of utter contempt, and I mach it with my own, glare for glare. Then she looks away, and for a second, I can see the old Lily. Lily, who painted my nails an ugly acid green. Lily, who told me that awful haircut looked great. Lily, who always listened, never judged.

But then she becomes the fake girl again, and whispers something to the girl next to her. They giggle. My cheeks burn. Then she grabs the arm of her new-found friend and leaves without a word.

I walk home silently. I will never let the tears pour down my cheeks until I am safe at home. I can be brave. Think of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table. They would never cry over something like this.

Then again, they had physical monsters to deal with rather than society. Grow up. Life is not like in books. Stop living in your little world of dreams.

I push this thought away. I hate the sensible part of my brain.

I walk into my house and throw down my bag. Parents at work. I am alone.

I climb up the stairs to my room. My haven. Home to my favorite thing in the house. The books. I run my fingertips over the worn spines, feeling the stories behind them. Like a connoisseur, I open one and read a sentence, then place it back on the shelf. No, that isn't right. Today I want something simple yet powerful, something that can take me away to a different land.

My hand stops at a paperback; the cover almost disintegrating from all the times in has been read and reread. The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. I smile and take it down from the bookshelf. Curling up on my bed, I enter a world where wardrobes open up into strange and wonderful places, animals talk, and anyone can be a hero.

Suddenly, something jerks me out of the inkworld, the land between the pages. I look up, annoyed. Then I realise it was a thought, clicking away in my subconscious mind. I try to grasp the brain wave, but it slips through my fingers. Then I reach out and take it firmly in my hands. I look at my newborn idea, and it hits me like a bullet. It's not real.

I feel cheated. Like I've been slapped in the face. Like a little kid who finds out Santa Clause doesn't exist. Slowly I rise off the bed and padnoislessly to the guest bedroom. There is something I need to find.

How long has it been since I last entered this room? Months, years, ages. Everything is still, the sunshine dances on the hardwood floors. In a corner, there is the bed, covered with pansy print. But all I can see is the wardrobe.

Reddish brown wood, passed from generation to generation. Mahogany? I don't know, but the word feels smooth and warm. Elegant. Intricate carvings adorn the doors, animals and people engraved into the wood. On one panel, I can see my childhood favourite. The girl riding the unicorn; her head covered with a wreath of poppies, the unicorn's mane flowing in the breeze. I slowly trace the curves on the unicorn's horn before opening the door.

A musty smell wafts out at me. Like coats and dust that hasn't been shifted for years. A half-open box lies on the floor coated with generations of spider webs. I take out the picture frame lying on the top, brushing off the glass.

It is a picture of me when I was six. At the summer fair. I am eating a cone of strawberry ice-cream, my mouth split into a sticky grin. Missing a tooth. I remember it was my first, fallen when I bit into a candied apple. I was so happy then.

I put the frame down, and determinedly step into the wardrobe, half-closing the door behind me.

It is dark. A comforting darkness. Like when you are playing sardines, and the boy you like squeezes up next to you, and you just sit and listen to each other breathe. Waiting for the others to find you, hoping they will not.

For a moment, I lay my cheek on the rough coats, breathing in the scent. Like my grandmother's house. Then I warily reach one hand forwards, barely daring to hope. Daring to hope there might be a new life beyond this wardrobe.

My fingertips brush cold wood. I breathe in sharply, and withdraw my hand. Try again.

I stretch out my hand, faster this time. Still solid. I push hard on the wall. Nothing. Tears stream silently down my face. It has to be there. All those books, all those dreams can't have been for nothing. My fingers trace the back of the wardrobe, faster and faster. Frantically scrabbling, trying to reach the Narnia that doesn’t exist.