Estelle. You've all heard stories about killers, ruthless they say? Psychopaths they say? Deserve to be killed they say? But you haven't heard my story. My name is Estelle Laurence, and I lived in a garage for 10 years been fed bird seed dirty dish water. Yes I killed a man, but would you? He forced me to do things to him that were unimaginable, I can't bring to say them, all I will say is that I had given birth to 2 children before the age of 16, and these children were sold by this sick man to desperate adoptees. In this dirty squat I had no home comforts, I had a wash basin that he would let me use once a day, I had a bed made of thin blankets that rested on a hard, cement floor and I also had two sets of clothing that were never washed in the entire time I stayed there. One day, in came this sick man, he walked in with his suit, he looked a normal man, you would never think this off him if you saw him walking down the street. He brought in a ceramic plate with bird seed, demanding I ate it, he watched me swallow these harsh seeds, each day he would make me eat them, they felt like razors to swallow. But this one day, I decided I did not wish to stand for his madness and I stood up as he walked away, and smashed my plate on his head, it shattered slowly and before I knew what was happened he turned around and pinned me against the wall by my neck. I used the last part of the plate that I had left and stuck it as far into his neck as I could, feeling the pulse on my hand I carried on, my adrenaline pumping I began to shake. he dropped to the floor like a fish out of water and begin to spit blood all over the floor, but my only thought was 'freedom.'I quickly escaped and felt the breath of fresh air. I laid on the freshly cut lawn of a suburban street, only two see this entire time I had been a mere two doors away from my parents. A neighbour saw the blood stained to my once white shirt and moved backwards in fear, this led to them calling the police, which is why we are here today. So judge and jury, I beg you to let me go, that man attacked me for years, making me feel vulnerable and demanding my services. The room went silent, the cameras pointing at me, then to the judge, the jury looked at each other puzzled at the situation. Am I a cold blooded killer, or did I do the right thing after all?

Miss You Your soft lips, Your boney hips, I miss you. Your gentle touch, Your amazing looks, I miss you. Your sweet tones, Your loving bones, I miss you. I wish I could tell you just how much I do, miss you!

Perfect? Her shoes are so high the ankle could begin to break any moment, there bright fluorescent colours make anyone stand and stare, almost becoming the star of the show. Above the shoes comes her skinny bones which are covered in flesh, so slender and sickening white the average woman breathes in at the view. These 'bones' are actually legs, and above them comes the stomach covered with a dress that shows off her skeleton. The rib cage is on show and it has less meat then a rat. The dress is black and could be mistaken for a blanket that only just covers the body. The breast bones are none existent, and then higher comes the face. The face so pale and slim it looks like food hasn't entered the dry and chapped lips in months. The makeup is plastered on trying to hide the pain she is suffering. She is living her dream, but what is a dream when you are less then a woman. You are a skeleton. So many girls aspire to look like these models, but, is this #perfect?

The Cafe Her face touching my skin, her soft tender lips on my cheeks making me shake gently. She whispers in my ear "if only you knew" this enigma she has makes me want to get to know ore about her. Suddenly I sit up, and open my eyes. I see the sun coming through the once white curtains, the floor is visible and I see my clothes laid there, creased beyond care, not even an iron could correct this. I stand up get dressed and drizzle cold water over my face, look into the mirror longingly in the hope to see her tanned face and beautiful glossy blue eyes, however I see my over grown facial hair, my eyes barely open and my teeth a light shade of yellow. Of course she wouldn't speak to me, of course she only appears that close in my dream. I have a shave with my rusty razor, my first day off for the week and my fingers are sore from all the packaging I am forced to do for minimum wage. I leave the flats making sure I make minimal noise, trying not to disturb the benefit families or the drug dealers. I have no enemies or friends in this place, but it's better than the streets so I make do. I follow my morning routine, entering the cafè once again, it has become something of a routine for me, I walk in head high and sit at table 10, same as always. The waitress walks over, her shirt bouncing from her bra been to small, she asks what I want and I can't help but stare at her mole with a long hair sticking out, maybe she needed the shave not me. I order the usual, 2 coffees and a croissant, and in she walks. The most beautiful woman I have ever seen, the lady from my dream, she sits opposite me and we discuss our lives. Our meeting has become regular with us both getting coffee at the same time, this week I feel courageous and I ask more questions then ever whilst staring into her beautiful eyes, remembering her soft skin in my dreams. I ask her why it is she comes here alone and not with friends, she replies one phrase: "if only you knew."

Family-Crisis Coming home from my boyfriends is always hard, missing him when we're apart, sleeping alone without my guard to protect from all the monsters and ghouls that visit in my nightmares. But it's harder coming home to an arrogant younger sister. Walking in the front door and the chaos of the household begins again: the screaming of the 6 year old child whom by genetics is my brother, the other brother who never leaves his room due to a highly addictive gaming device, the parents who choose to ignore the conflict I have with my siblings and then there's the sister. The sister is the reason I find it hard to live at home, her constant pedantic ways make it impossible to smile. As I walk in the front door and enter the living room, she finds it hard to unstick from the sofa. Once mobile she wanders into the kitchen hopelessly aiming for food to appear in front of her if she opens the fridge door enough. She has old pyjamas on that come under her knee in a 70s fashion to match her back combed bed head. She speaks only in grunts as if ferrel. The day goes on slowly, she repeats the fridge cycle numerous time until a knock at the door shows her friends peering in. She answer the door loudly, speaking in a language that can only be described as Gibberish the only word I can understand is "hello". I see her shooting up the stairs and running back down in a dark blue sweatshirt, which could only belong to me. I feel violated knowing that she has my clothes on due to my teenage need for privacy. I feel deprived of a basic need to my own clothes and then go on to wonder why it is that my mother has not pointed out what she is doing is wrong. I step in and tell Yazmin she is not allowed near my clothes, fearing that this could quickly turn physical rather then verbal, so I step back, take my sweatshirt from her skinny arms and walk away calmly. After all, violence is not the only answer.