"Again?"
This was Will's response to Mum's announcement that Monday morning. I didn't particularly care, all that mattered to me was that we took the nice soft armchair with us. I spent many a day in this armchair, writing reams and reams. It didnt really matter what I wrote, whether it was fiction or fact, I just had to get something down on paper.
"Yes, Will."
Mum is a lot like me. She doesn't care either. Well, about this particular matter. She cares a lot about other stuff. Not Mumsy stuff, like safety and food or hygiene, but about space. She hates it. She likes to be cooped up in her own world, in our house, just me, her and Will. But when people discover where we live, and people come visiting, the game's up.
The doctors call it obsessive . My peers call it freakish. Me and Will call it normal, though it gets to Will, I can tell. Will is handsome, clever, and confident. He's the typical build for Head Boy, school-ruler, but he never gets a chance to fit in. We're always on the move. It doesnt get to me, because I don't want to fit in. I do my lessons, I walk home, I let myself in and I sit on the chair. And write. If Mum would ever pluck up the courage to leave the house and take me to the doctors, they'd tell me I have a disorder too, the fact that I have to get home and write. But the professionals dont understand. I'm creating my own world of fantasy, far away from the surreal blur I actually live in. That's my disorder, living in a world where even my own family don't care.
Its not really their fault. Will is too busy trying to be a normal teenager, and Mum's poorly. I've learned to accept the fact that I'm different, but I've never curbed the urge to race home and write. I used to take my notebook to school, but then somebody found it, and read aloud my tales of a girl called Anne Leavey and how she's far from a world like this one.
I'm called a freak, emo, gothic. I'm so glad we're moving, so that my new world can begin.