Looking up.

October 3 1926

It’s been a week since I ran away. A week in this furnished room. A week of selling myself.

Tomorrow I start work at the perfume shop. I have spent the day in deep melancholy. Mostly lying on the bed staring up at the skylight thinking morbid thoughts. I’m surprised that I miss home. My mother’s Sunday roast. I want to slap myself for this.

Besides there’s no going back now. I go to the market and buy some apples and fresh flowers to cheer myself. Then I look at the flowers so fresh and beautiful and all I can think is that soon they will die. And then one day I will die. And I imagine myself coughing up blood in this dingy little room. All alone. A common street girl.

Then I make myself laugh because I find myself thinking that at least I’ll out live the flowers. I give the flowers a smug toss. The apples are very good.

Mrs Pankhurst gave me some old Home Journals and so I cut out the pictures on the covers and stick them up on the wall. One day I’ll have expensive paintings by the most acclaimed painters on my walls. Perhaps the painters will be my lovers, if they can afford me. But for now I have old magazine covers stuck up with tape.

I tried to scrub the rust off the old metal dresser, but it won’t budge.  I can’t open the draw nearest the bed. It is jammed shut. It would be very useful, but even with my foot up next to it I can’t get it open.

I’m not going to go out t0night. It’s cold and wet and I can’t face it. Let’s see what tomorrow brings.

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