Well, here I am again. Two years on since the last time and I'm back. Of course, I'm wiser now, I've seen more, done more and learned things, but still… I'm back here. Still running.

I thought I could make a go of it. My life, I mean. I tried ending it a few times - but a few sessions with a psychiatrist soon ended that. It's worth living if I never have to go through that again.

Hmm, the queue's moving. Be out of here soon. Why are there so many people at this time in the morning? Business and women I suppose, commuting to London or somewhere. People with careers - just like I would have had if I hadn't fallen in with the 'wrong' crowd.

I'm starting to wonder if I packed enough stuff. My bag is certainly heavy enough. I've got clothes, and all my money - what little of that there is - and some food to keep me going.

I'm at the ticket booth now. I'll just ask them for a single ticket to the furthest place from here, in any direction. Anywhere's got to be better than here. The ticket clerk gives me a strange look - she must be new here. The ones who've been here a while are used to my type. I'm just another of those 'unfortunate' kids in their eyes. But I'm no kid. I was the first time, I didn't know what I was doing… now I do. I'm in charge of my own life, my own decisions.

At the last minute, I change my mind and order a one-way to London. The clerk doesn't look too pleased, but what do I care? She doesn't know me, what I've been through, what I'm trying to get away from. What I'm hoping to find…

The ticket finally gets processed and I run to the platform, barely managing to leap on board as it pulls out. The guard shouts something at me but I don't listen. I've always got everything done by the skin of my teeth. The train, a grubby, antiquated tube - it should have been retired by the sound of it - is full. Every cramped seat is occupied by identical men, in black suits, ties, and shiny brogues, and all carrying briefcases and expensive mobile phones. The black sheep is one woman amongst them, but she's paradoxically just the same. I half expect all of their phones to ring simultaneously, their heads to bow down to their coat pockets, their phones to be answered with the same professional greeting, almost like something out of a cartoon. Then I realise - this is no cartoon, this is reality, no matter how surreal it may appear… and I am the only black sheep here.

They make this fact increasingly obvious as I walk down the poky carriage to a single vacant seat at the back. Every face turns to look at me, every pair of eyes takes in my appearance and makes a judgement, and every head shakes in a Mexican wave of disapproval. I used to be bothered by it, all that time ago. This evokes a strange sense of deja-vu in me, but now, I just keep walking, my head up high focussed on that seat. Screw them, they've made their choices as everyone is entitled to do. This is my choice.

My bag is heavy. I've packed too much rather than too little. As the empty seat draws ever closer, the carriage seems to be getting longer and narrower. I've been two days without sleep now, and that Dali-esque state of twisted perception has set in from the deprivation. I can't sleep yet. Sleep is my reward, and I haven't earned it.

Finally, I reach the seat. It seems like an eternity since I boarded the train, and I was convinced that another sheep would emerge from the toilet and steal my victory from me. Maybe I do have a little luck after all. The seat isn't comfortable, but it's better than standing up. A shame there's no room for my bag in the luggage compartment, though.

The businessman next to me is reading through papers - a court case by the looks of all the technical terms in it. He catches me reading it out of the corner of my eye and shifts his body weight so that I can't see the papers. Not that I was interested anyway. I can always pretend he's the one on trial, rather than the one who's paid to fiddle the truth.

I can see him now, standing in an oversized defendant's box. A judge with an enormous wig lays into him in a deep, booming voice… "I hereby find you GUILTY! Guilty of being in possession of and flaunting a ridiculously expensive necktie in garish colours." The businessman cowers in fear, and goes down on his hands and knees to beg forgiveness - pathetic, really. The Judge is not tolerant of such behaviour, and his huge wooden gavel hits with a

BANG!

The guard slams his hand down on the armrest next to me, waking me from my dream. He wants my ticket, obviously not believing I've even got one. I fish it out of my jacket pocket with one hand and give it to him. He spends ten seconds examining it for any falsities, then stamps it and gives it back. I thank him and run a hand through my hair. He shakes his head and walks off, collecting tickets from the 'normal' people.

I keep forgetting about this hand, the mark it bears. It seems to upset people. My friend Lily did this for me a few months ago after a drunken party. I knew it was a bad idea, encouraging her to accept the job at the tattoo studio, but she seems to be a pro. Does them without any transfers or anything. If you describe what you want, she'll draw it for you on paper, right there, and she's never far off with her designs. Like this one - it was my idea in the first place, I think - a skeleton hand, drawn perfectly in line with the actual bones underneath, on both sides of my hand. Not an error in sight. It hurt like hell but I'm very proud of it. It makes me unique. She's got such an amazing talent. She could have used it for so many things, but, thinking about it, she'll probably make more money this way from society's outcasts than she will painting pretty castles and trees.

I learnt to accept a long time ago that 'different' people are not folded into society. The tattoo, of course, hasn't helped me in the slightest, contributing to my unemployment and choice of friends. And, naturally, my parents freaked.

I keep asking myself why I'm doing this. I'm leaving behind my home, my friends and family… but I'm also leaving a tangled mess of broken hearts and shattered dreams, mine and those of others. I'm doing everyone a favour by leaving. They won't realise that yet, but in time, when their lives start improving, they will. I'm pursuing a dream I long gave up on, a dream I forgot in the hope of doing something productive as a career. But dreams… REAL dreams, the ones you've had since you can remember… they never go away. They're always at the back of your brain as some meagre backup plan. In my case, it's my only plan, the only one I've got left.

If you can call it a plan, though. I mean, who am I kidding? I really expect to make something of myself just because I'm fleeing to the capital? If anything, I'll probably end up worse off than I am now. I know that the streets aren't really paved with gold and that everything won't fall instantly into my lap the second I leave this rickety cylinder… but somewhere at the base of my skull is a little nagging thought that, maybe, my life will get better. If anything I've got a bigger space to get lost in. That's about the only pro I can think of right now.

I know I shouldn't be doing this alone. The risks are insurmountable. I've got friends back home who knew what I was planning, and they tried to talk me out of it. Only Dominic really understood why I wanted to get out, and as soon as the others left he gave me his blessing. "Whatever you want to do, Jem," he said. "I know it's been tough these past few months. That doctor did more harm that good. If you're not ready to take control of your life now, you never will be…" I'm so glad at least someone got it, that someone finally knew what I was trying to do. Dominic did the same thing as me, a year ago - he fled from his old life and started a new one. Now he sells copies of the Big Issue on a street corner, but at least he seems to be happy doing it. He says he likes meeting all the people and talking to his 'regulars'; I can see why he enjoys it. And it's a job, which is more than can be said for me… He told me once that he was saving up to move to France - the boy doesn't even speak the language! - and he asked me if I wanted to go with him. I questioned his motives, but he assured me they were innocent. I was young then, but I wasn't born yesterday, as the saying goes. He was impressed by my answer: "Ask me again in three years…" Today would be that day. And my answer would have been 'yes', had everything else in my life not gone so utterly, horribly wrong. I can see him now, coming up to me with that twinkle in his eye, that slight smile, asking me again to join him. God knows why he chose to ask me. I certainly wouldn't ask me… Oh, God, I miss him already… I'm so sorry, Dom. I hope you can forgive me…

The train's pulling into its next stop. I mustn't start to cry, it'll draw unnecessary attention to me. The man next to me gets up, obviously not intending to ask me politely to move, so I swing my legs out of his way. He still manages to hit me with his briefcase even though I gave him a wide enough berth to move. He doesn't apologise or thank me, just bustles off the train. I resist the urge to say, with as much sarcasm as I can muster, "I'm fine, thank you, and you're welcome" since it'll only make me more of a spectacle here. I move over to his recently occupied seat - it still smells of his awful aftershave - and watch him outside the window. It's snowing, quite heavily by now and there's already a fine covering on the ground. I'm not sure if the train should even be running in this weather- I hope they don't make us all get off and wait. A movement diverts my attention to a girl my age, under a blanket, with a dog curled up next to her. My sympathy goes out to her as the businessman, too engrossed in getting to his own destination, blatantly ignores her. Or maybe he ignores anyone he considers 'lower' than himself.

The girl seems to sense me watching her. She takes in my appearance from the shoulders up, what she can see through the window - my khaki jacket, my dreads and my nose-ring (another thing that's not gaining me any favours). She knows we're alike, the two of us, and she doesn't begrudge me my seat in the warmth. In the spur of the moment, I dig out my sandwiches, open the window and throw them to her. A perfect catch. She smiles knowingly and somewhat sadly, and gives me a friendly thumbs-up. As the train pulls off, I keep watching her… she's sharing her unearned prize with her canine companion. The growl of my own stomach is replaced by a momentary warm, fuzzy feeling of having done good.

I wonder… will I be that girl in a few years time? Maybe even sooner than that? And if I am, will someone like me take kindly and throw me food from a train window, undignified though it is? Will I ever reach such a stage of deprivation where food that I share with a dog is better than no food at all? Maybe I just glimpsed my own future without realising it…

The train's well on its way again now, heading a steady pace to my destination, or possibly my destiny. The rattling of the rickety barge as it turns a slight corner is almost soothing, if it wasn't so inherently terrifying. My nerves are shot today. Being on the run does that do you - you never know who's followed you to drag you back to your old life, and the dangers that lie ahead are unknown, and set my heart pounding with excitement and fearful anticipation.

The doors at the far end of the carriage slide open, revealing an elderly lady with a huge shopping cart on wheels. Lady and luggage combined are almost too wide to squeeze down the aisle. She's spotted the empty seat next to me, the one I just moved out of. Her eyes light up and she starts bustling forward, determined to reach it despite her obvious weariness… ah, now she's spotted me. She slows, but doesn't stop. She knows this is the only seat on the train, but now she's dubious. Maybe if I prove I'm not as bad as I look she'll drop her prejudice a little - I'll move my bag out of the way more, so it's now in my leg room and I'm squashed into a cramped and uncomfortable position. She's still heading for the seat. I can see her indecision play itself across her features, though - tiredness and the desperate, primal need to sit down that accompanies it, versus mistrust and disdain against me - her fellow human being. She's scanning the other rows unsuccessfully for a vacancy she may have missed. Her feet ignore her inner battle as it wages on against itself in her brain and finally, she stops, looming over me. What's her decision? She sits down heavily, attempting to get her cart into yet more of my space. I refuse to budge any further. I've done my two good deeds for this morning.

The old lady glowers at me for my 'insolence' and I wonder… if I were dressed like everyone else, would she have the same opinion of me? Is it that obvious what I'm doing?

The driver's just announced that we'll be arriving in London in about two hours. I'm beginning to wish I'd brought a book or something now. If I listen to my Walkman it'll only cause more aggravation from someone, not to mention the fact that I have an apparently annoying tendency to sing along. It's not that I'm bad (I'm actually good, if I say so myself), I just do it all the time. Everywhere. As 'Nif (short for Jennifer), another of my friends, once said to me, "You ever considered getting pills or something for that little addiction of yours?" I was humming along to a radio jingle without realising at the time…

I hear, rather than see, the drinks trolley coming through. I wouldn't have thought the floor of this thing could withstand it. The usher, or whatever she is, asks my neighbour if she wants anything (she doesn't, of course), and the occupants of the opposite seats, then moves onwards, blatantly ignoring me. I call her back, more aggressively than I intended, and she stops to regard me with familiar disdain. There's that deja-vu again…

"Yes?" she asks, looking down her nose.

"Coke," I say, and instantly wish I'd reworded it. She sniffs, looking absolutely disgusted.

"I don't believe we sell that on the refreshments trolley. Perhaps when you leave the train?" I give one of my patented withering stares, of which I'm rather proud, making sure to include all those passengers watching us, and produce a pound coin. Overly politely, I say:

"Why, madam, I think you must be mistaken. There's a can right under your pretentious nose." Well, that felt good. If they want me to be disagreeable then I will be. I can have a little fun with this for a while. She snatches the coin and practically hurls me the can, grudgingly handing over my fifteen pence change before moving on. It's either a very extortionate can, or she's as stupid as she appears.

I'm better off without people, I've decided. Yes, I love my friends and family, I always will, but when push comes to shove, I don't need them. They've been there for me in the past, but right now I have to do this alone, because there's nothing they can do to help. I live my own life for myself, and I'm tired of living it for others and for what they want me to do with it. In the end it's my own choice whether I'm rich or living in a box. And if I'm happy, what does it matter, anyway.

Two more hours to go until my life starts over from scratch. I can hardly wait. And for two more hours it's just me and my thoughts; I can block the train noise and the strange looks out for two hours, I'm sure. At least it's a pretty view out of the window - rolling hills and fields. A fresh start, that's what this'll be. As if my old life never happened…

It's snowing more heavily now. Everything's almost completely white from the sky to the ground. It's pure and fresh… symbolic in a way… of a fresh start, a covering, a new drawing board just waiting for me to leave my mark… my first footprint in the snow.