I wrote this autobiographical piece about a year ago. It's a fairly rough draft, really, so any specific/serious/helpful critiquing will be welcomed. I tried to write this primarily from the point of the 12-year-old; thus the language is a little simpler.

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It had been just over three years since I had moved back into this house, and I knew now, at age twelve and a half, that it was finally time for me to leave. I made my way out onto the second floor balcony of our little townhouse in Gladesville, Sydney, and started to clumsily drag my sister's pink bicycle inside. Nobody else was home, but I was terrified that at any minute, someone might arrive and find me trying to leave. The worst possible thing I could imagine at that moment was that someone might stop me. Because I knew with absolute certainty, that if I didn't get away while I had this chance, I would soon end up dead. I had made sure that I was warmly dressed in my favourite clothes (a pair of pink jeans that had been handed down from my sister), and took nothing else with me. I really had no other worldly possessions of value, anyway. Only my school books were precious enough to consider, but I wasn't going to be able to carry them, so I left them behind. I pulled the bike down the stairs, careful not to leave any marks on the walls as I turned the 180 degree bend halfway down. A part of me was sure that even though I was leaving, I'd end up back there again, so I was minimising the potential number of things that I could be punished for upon my impending return. I double checked the walls once I had the bike at the bottom. Nope, no scuff marks, good. I grabbed a couple of slices of bread from the freezer before I headed out the door. I hadn't really had enough to eat that day, and I knew I was going to need what little nourishment I could carry with me or stuff down my throat before I departed. As I opened the front door of the house, I peeked out to make sure nobody was coming or would see me leave. My heart pounded in my chest and the taste of fear was palpable in my mouth. Hurriedly, I pulled the bike through the door, standing it against the wall while I hesitated, searching within myself for reassurance that I was making the right decision. I was terrified of leaving. What if She caught me? What if I had to return? But I only paused for a brief moment, before I closed the locked door behind me. No, I couldn't stay. I'd committed the final crime, and if I stayed, I knew the punishment was certain death. She'd told me so - She'd confidently announced that if I did one more thing wrong, "they'd" find me "in the river". And nobody would care. Barely anybody knew I existed. And nobody would catch her out. She was too smart to be caught out - and heaven only knew how smart I knew She could be. I'd been terrified to the very cellular level ever since that threat of hers. I knew that She was fully capable of killing me - and just as capable of getting away with it. After all, when I was just six years old She had proven this fact to me by holding a pillow over my face until I was dead, dead, dead. Then She'd thought twice about the consequences, I guess. She told me later that She'd called an ambulance and told them that She'd checked on me while I was sleeping and discovered that I was blue in the face. Nobody questioned her story. Not once, not anyone. So I knew for sure that She'd do it. And I was certain that She'd get off scot free as well. I had tried to be good. I really had. And when I'd broken the rules, in order to get myself some food, or to get to the toilet, or to provide for myself in some way, I had tried to be clever enough not to get found out. I'd managed pretty well until today. But now it was too late. I hadn't been quite clever enough, and although I didn't really know why I cared about my well-being anymore, I had a fundamental instinct that I wasn't ready to die, that I might miss out on something important in my future if I were dead. For some reason I was more afraid of missing out on that future than I was frightened of staying. So, I was leaving. And if I had anything to say about it, I was planning to never return. As I dragged the bike down the outside stairs to the street, I wondered where I might go. I hadn't actually really thought this far ahead, so at this point I was a little confused about what to do next. I knew I couldn't go to the police, because they would give me back to her. She'd told me that. She'd convinced me that they wouldn't believe a word I had to say, and She was probably right, because She had convinced most people I had ever met that I was compulsive liar and that I invented stories about her to embarrass her and make her look like a bad mother. I couldn't go to anyone that I knew from school or in the neighbourhood, because She'd managed to overcome any and all of their feeble attempts to help me. I guess most of them felt helpless and confused after that, and the offers of help from them had stopped being forthcoming. I figured they would either think I was a liar and return me to her, or be scared of becoming involved and return me to her anyway. I had no school friends to turn to. My school was at least an hour's drive away, which kind of made that idea pretty pointless. Besides, She was a teacher there, one whom all the kids were terrified of, which meant that even if they wanted to, they wouldn't have been able to help. I only had one friend from my old local school, and I didn't know where she lived. I don't think I'd ever told her anything about my home life anyway. A week ago I had snuck out of the house while She was at work and visited my old local school teacher from sixth grade. He had assumed that I was playing truant from my new school. He'd been nice enough; even let me sit in on his class for a while, but what I really needed was for him to read my mind and realise that I needed some help. I was too terrified to actually tell him what was going on. So, after a couple of hours visiting him, I had retreated back to my prison at home. The only people I could think of in the whole of Sydney to turn to, were a family I knew who lived in Neutral Bay. I had lived with them a few years before, shared my ninth birthday (the only birthday party I can remember having as a child) with them. They were my old foster family. I decided to head for their place. They hated her, and knew not to believe her lies. They'd protect me. It occurred to me that maybe they'd let me live there with them again. I didn't really know exactly how to find them, but I remembered that Neutral Bay was across the Harbour Bridge. I knew how to find the Bridge, so I headed off, travelling tentatively along main roads and fumbling my way through the bustling traffic. It was about midday when I set off. I'd been secretly in touch with them in recent months. I had asked my best friend at school to mail and receive a couple of letters for me. My friend had been so brave on my behalf. I knew that if I received any mail at home, She would read it and withhold it. I also knew that if it came from someone that She had forbidden me to have contact with, I would be interrogated and punished. So I had asked my friend to mail a letter for me, in which I had requested my foster family send me some stamps so that I could continue to correspond. My friend would bring their replies to school with her, let me read them at recess or lunch, and then keep them for me so that She would never find out that I had received anything. After She'd stopped letting me go to school a couple of weeks ago, so that nobody would see the welts and bruises on my body, I'd gotten in touch with my foster parents by phone. I wanted them to help, but I don't recall whether I actually told them this directly. Shortly after a couple of phone calls, my foster mother had arrived on the doorstep, with her three-year-old daughter. This little girl had been born just after I had left the family, and I had never seen her before this day or known even if she were a boy or a girl. It was wonderful to finally know, after having watched my foster mother's belly swell from the growth of the baby within. We had chatted for a few minutes, but I think I had asked her to go fairly soon afterwards, terrified as I was about being caught breaking the rules. I had been forbidden to ever even mention my foster family, let alone contact them and see them! To me at the time, this visit was truly death defying stuff. So my foster mother had left, and that was the last I had heard. I found my way to the Sydney Harbour Bridge, but I couldn't for the life of me figure out how to get onto the bicycle path that runs the length of one side of the Bridge. So I followed the cars, hoping that I would find the bike path entrance somewhere near the entrance to the Bridge. The next thing I knew, I was in the midst of eight lane traffic, unable to find my bicycle path and receiving some very quizzical looks from people in cars as they sped past me. I got to the toll gates, and stopped to ask the toll collector to direct me to the bicycle path. I was very nervous and frightened of the cars and desperately wanted to get away from them. The toll collector told me that I had missed the entrance to the path and that I would have to continue to the end of the Bridge. I thanked him, gritted my teeth and recommenced my journey. Near the end of the Bridge, on the left, a man was standing at the top of a flight of stairs. He flagged me down, and asked if I was the girl who just rode across with the traffic. He looked like an official. I said yes, and he explained that the stairs were the way down from the Bridge. He offered to help me get my bike down there. I was tired and accepted his offer gratefully. As he wheeled my bike slowly down the ramp in the middle of the flight of stairs, we made idle chit chat and he commented on my luck at having made it across with the traffic unharmed. Somehow the conversation led to a request from him. He told me that he needed me to do him a favour, and asked if I was willing. After he had helped me off the Bridge, I was very grateful, so I of course said yes, I would help. After leaning the bike on the ground, he led me into a small area of trees next to Luna Park. He pulled a pair of underpants from his pocket, and explained that he had to have a model wear them later that day, but that he needed to prepare them for her beforehand. He explained that he wanted me to put them on, and upon also removing a small rusty knife from his pocket, said that he needed to cut some holes in the underpants while I was wearing them. I'll admit I was confused about why he would need to do such a thing, and while I looked at him with doubt, I felt that I owed him the favour. So I said that I would do it, on the condition that I only had to be with him for five minutes, and on the second condition that I would only wear the underpants over my jeans. He agreed. I pulled the underpants over my jeans and he commenced cutting small holes in them with his knife. I didn't look at him as he did this, but the pace at which he was working was so slow that I began to think he was trying to make it so that he could have more than his five minutes. Very quickly I became frightened, although I didn't really know why. I guess I had an instinct that this was not right, and was possibly dangerous, so after a couple of minutes I leaped away from him, hastily removed the underpants and cautiously said, "That's enough. I'm going now. Thanks for your help on the bridge!" Then I ran as fast as I could back to the bicycle and, once back on board, pumped my legs feverishly until I was sure I couldn't see him over my shoulder. Although I didn't know at all really where I was, I used my vague recollections of the area and travelled through Kirribilli, knowing that if I kept heading in the same direction, I would eventually reach Neutral Bay. I was forced to work very hard, riding up steep, winding hills that went on seemingly forever. Something about these roads was familiar, and I knew my foster family's home was somewhere around there, but I couldn't recall exactly where. I was too scared to stop and ask for directions, in case I met any other creepy people, so I just kept heading forwards, in the hope that I would eventually see the house or a landmark that seemed familiar. After a while I realised that this long winding road was the one my old school bus from a few years before had used to travel along, so I continued upwards, knowing that at the top I would find the shopping areas of Neutral Bay. I filled with doubt many times, always unsure as to whether my plans would ever work out in my favour. Once I finally reached the top, I rode around the footpath of the main street, trying to figure out what to do next. I devised a plan. I would tell a shop keeper that I was lost and ask to use their phone. I entered a water bed shop, made the request, and was granted entry. The shop owner gave me the White Pages as I asked; I looked up the phone number and dialled. "Hello?" a voice answered. "Uhm, hi. It's me. I'm in Neutral Bay. Can you come and pick me up?" "Yes-Yes-Yes! Of course, we'll be there right away." I explained where exactly they could find me, replaced the handset, thanked the shop keeper with my sweetest of smiles and waited outside, riding the bicycle around in circles on the footpath. I thought I would explode with anticipation. It seemed forever before anyone arrived, but then I heard the honk of a car horn, and I snapped my head to look where the sound came from. The distinctive chocolate brown Toyota Land Cruiser had pulled up across the road. I whizzed across there so quickly I think I narrowly avoided a couple of oncoming cars, but I was so happy that I barely noticed. My foster father wrapped me in his arms and held me close for a wonderful moment. I was safe! She couldn't get to me anymore. Now I could live with my foster family and they wouldn't let her come anywhere near me. We piled the bike into the back of the car and headed out of there. I bubbled out that I had run away from her and that I never, ever wanted to go back.