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

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

Alright, I got feedback from LilianCarmine (SHE IS AWESOME) and I'm going ahead with the story. Let me know what you think :)

.:Story Start:.

Dear diary,

"This is the first entry I've ever written. I don't know why you, or anyone else would be interested in it, my dull, boring, life that is the complete opposite of the word. Life. Huh.

I guess I should start explaining things. My life is far from ordinary, yet I wish it was so, I wish I could pull myself out of the life I live in. Unfortunately, that isn't the case.

I have no friends. I'm a loner, someone who sits in the corner who doesn't participate or say a word. I'm someone who no one cares about, I don't think they even know my surname. It's Johnson, by the way. Elizabeth Johnson.

And then there's my "

I paused for a moment, my pen hovering millimeters above the page. I couldn't bring myself to write the word. It didn't fit, it wasn't right. Of course there were alternatives, but none of them were quite strong enough. There was no word. Nothing could describe what I was thinking. I sighed, dropping the pen.

I knew a diary entry was a bad idea. I'd already told my life story to my pillow, over and over, but it made no difference, letting it out didn't give me the feeling of relief I had hoped for. And writing didn't help, either, neither diary entry nor story could ease my feelings.

I stood up from my creaky wooden chair and glanced at the clock. 5:30. Perfect, just four more hours until...I couldn't bring myself to think about it. I snapped shut one of many notebooks scattered over the desk and walked slowly towards the door, dragging my finger lightly over the chipped surface of the desk.

I plodded downstairs and into the kitchen and opened the fridge, empty as I'd expected. I stared into the white space, letting the cool air wash over my face before closing it again and sitting on a bar stool with the sponge spilling out of rips along the sides. I span round on it, using the breakfast bar to propel myself, ignoring the partially blurred objects that filled my view and instead concentrated on thinking about school. It would be starting tomorrow, the first year of sixth form, with people I might make friends with. But a tiny voice inside my head disputed that. I'd never had friends.

I tried to think about something less depressing. My only solution was Romeo and Juliet, which shows just how depressing my life is. My thoughts wandered to their lives. Their fictitious lives, that I had pondered over time and time again, wondering what would have happened if Paris was a very good friend of Juliet's. Would they have married? Would Romeo somehow have stopped the wedding and perhaps forced her to marry him? Their lives were almost as complicated as mine.

I stopped spinning and tried to stand up. I instantly wished I hadn't - my head was still spinning and I almost lost my balance. Grimacing, I leaned heavily against the breakfast bar and waited a few moments before cautiously stepping towards the cupboards, hungry. The only thing that looked remotely edible was an open pack of biscuits that stood on the top shelf. I stood on tip toe and stretched up, but then scowled - I had always been short for my 16 years of age. Irritatingly so.

I dragged over a bar stool and climbed up onto it, reaching into the cupboard, wobbling precariously. To my relief, I grabbed the biscuits and climbed down without falling off. I took a couple of biscuits, and found them soggy, but it was better than nothing. At the moment, we didn't have the money to afford any decent food. I was trying though - I got a fair amount of money from work, helping to afford stuff.

My work was the only half decent place I had ever known. The library nearby was warm and friendly; some people came close to being called friends, but I didn't really see them enough to justify it. It was alright though, a decent job. All I had to do was put books away in the shelves when people brought them back.

I was alerted out of my reverie by a knock on the door. Curious, I slid off the bar stool and went into the hallway, wondering who could possibly want to call at the Johnson household. We never had visitors, and the phone lines were cut off due to lack of use - and bills.

I saw a blurred shape outside the frosted glass, a man, quite short. I opened the door cautiously, and instantly regretted it. The man was small and podgy with a balding head and a bad comb-over. He was wearing a shabby suit, stained with a purple-ish red substance. His chubby cheeks were red as were the whites of his eyes.

This man was drunk.

I could tell, by the unnatural glaze to his eyes and the unsteadiness of his stature. The stench was also a dead giveaway.

The only thing that bothered me about this man, despite the fact that he was drunk, was the fact that I had seen him before. Many times. The same, thin, graying hair, the creepy, toothy, drunk smile. This man was a friend of my - dare I say it? - father's.

"What do you want?" I said rudely, harshly, tempted to slam the door in his face. I don't know why I didn't.

"To talk to you, sweetums," he said in a slurry voice. I narrowed my eyes.

"Don't give me that crap. I know you're looking for dad," I said, shivering as the word escaped my lips.

"Language," he tutted, sagging slightly. He leaned against the wall. "Aren't you going to let me in, darling?"

"Not in a million years," I said, and slammed the door in his face.

The missing word to my diary, the one I was almost unable to write, say, think? It was simple. Thousands of children say it every single day of their lives, but I could not, it wasn't the right word, it didn't describe it.

Dad.