OK, I was in my room on the laptop and found the very first part if this, just the sentence about looking out the window. I had this strange idea and this is what I've written so far. It's a very rough draft and the abrubtish style is sort of intentional, (well, I think it sounds very short like a child speaking, but that's just me. OK, well any comments would be appreciated!
EDIT: I think I am going to write this again in 1st person, it might be better.
***
Victoria stood, peering out between the curtains, out onto the houses and buildings on the London horizon. Thick, black tendrils of climbing ivy had grown over the small window panes and the ledge. She stared curiously at the people in the distance, so small from the window, like ants. She wondered what they were all doing. Shopping, she supposed or maybe travelling to somewhere else. Nothing particularly exciting. Just jostling each other as they ran by, peering into shop windows and talking with others. What were they thinking? Were they happy or angry or sad or nervous? People confused her so much. One minute they liked you, then they told you to go away or they tried to kill you.
That was why it was better to stay indoors away from them. The attic was safe and empty. Just how she liked it. Victoria didn’t mind the dust or cobwebs. She didn’t even mind the old, broken furniture or the rats. She loved the old Victorian chairs and paintings and especially the piano. It was the oldest object in the whole house. She didn’t know where it had come from but it was covered in roots, earth and rotten leaves. It still worked, although the sound was a little tinny and most of the keys were out of tune. It was hers and that was all that mattered.
She walked over to it, stroking its side. It was cold as usual, frozen to the touch. But not the keys. They were always warm, somehow, perfect for playing. Victoria loved to play piano. She had never been given lessons but she had worked out how to play from a book. Once she had mastered the basics, she found it incredibly easy to learn new pieces, so she played through every music book she could find until there was nothing left to play. Then she started making her own songs. They would never have lyrics, though, just notes.
Victoria didn’t like to speak very much and singing was even worse. Her throat hurt at the slightest croak. Perhaps it was because she hadn’t spoken in years. There was no need to anyway. If she needed to communicate she could write it down and show the person or make gestures. Mother didn’t bother trying to make her talk or come down from the attic. She wouldn’t budge for anyone. Mother had never called a doctor or psychiatrist. Maybe she thought that Victoria would be taken away if they found out how she lived. Nobody came to the house to check on her. Victoria assumed she was registered as a home-schooled student because she didn’t have to go to school.
She still learned things though. Mother gave her books. Well, she didn’t exactly give them to her. More like she slid them under the door. Victoria had quite a large supply of books. They were all piled up around her, like skyscrapers of paper.
There was a loud knock at the door.
“Victoria!” a voice whispered.
Victoria jumped at the noise and hid behind the piano. “Leave me alone.” she thought.
“Victoria! Open the door.”
The voice wasn’t her mother's. There wasn’t anyone else in the house. “It can‘t be an intruder because they know my name.” she contemplated “Perhaps they know my mother.” She wasn’t worried about them coming in. The door was locked and she had put a chair in front of it. There was no way in. Victoria peeked out from the side of the piano. There was a shadow in the light coming through the bottom of the door. They were still there. If she kept quiet, they might leave.
NOW! In first person...
I stand at the window, staring down at the sea of people, scurrying like tiny ants. They are all dressed in vibrant colours, tight clothing and hold gigantic bags that are called ‘designer’.
Occasionally I see some in dark, drab clothing that skulk in the shadows. The others do not notice them, but rush past, bumping into them as if they are solid ghosts. They exist but are not seen. I wish I could be like them. Invisible and uninteresting.
That’s not to say I’m a very, loud person that shouts and attracts attention. Quite the opposite in fact. But I wish I couldn’t be seen at all. Like a ghostly figure you see in the corner of your eye and dismiss as a trick of the light. I am quite like a ghost, though. I look down at my pale, twig- like arms and pull my sleeves back over them. It scares me to see how skinny I am. What if I starve or get anorexia? Or if my stomach digests itself? I’ve read about that in my books. Books are my friends. I have a whole library, practically. A whole room of faithful friends. They tower over me like skyscrapers of paper, protecting me.
I turn back to the window and notice the ivy growing up the balcony.
I wonder how long it has been growing. Perhaps, years, decades, centuries. Maybe a girl once my age lived here, in the Victorian times, staring out the window like me. I love the Victorian times. And especially Queen Victoria. That’s my name too, Victoria. She’s famous for always saying ‘we are not amused.’ but she never said that once. Strange that, being famous for something you never did. I mean she was a queen too, but that’s what a lot of people know her for.
People are so confusing. One minute they like you and want to be your friend and the next they hate your guts and wish you were dead. That’s why I live here. The attic is safe and secure and empty. There is no one to disturb me here apart from the rats. But the rats won’t call you names or drive you mad. Some of them chew through my books but that’s about it. Rats are far simpler than humans. Food is their only concern.
Pianos are the same. You could play on a piano all day and it would never complain.
But I am being fanciful, as the Victorian’s would say, because pianos do not think or breathe.
There is a lovely piano in here, the attic. I have no idea where it came from but it has certainly gone through a rough time. It was covered in roots, earth and rotten leaves when I found it. It still works, although the sound is a little tinny and most of the keys are out of tune.
I hop off the window sill and sit myself down at the piano. A music book is still perched on the stand, open at one of my favourite songs. Moonlight sonata. I stretch my fingers and begin to play. The song starts off quiet and simple, flowing wonderfully, like a slow waterfall of notes. Then… a crashing octave! Arpeggios, fortissimos, moving chords at the speed of light! Now it’s quiet again, soothing, almost, with its low notes and elegant swirls, I try not to lose myself in the music but it is too hard. There’s a story in this song, I’m sure, something sad and strange. I wonder why it is called Moonlight sonata…. Maybe Beethoven wrote it staring out of his window, looking at the stars or a wolf prowling in the dark- I stop suddenly. There is someone in the house.
CRASH! Again and again I hear the sound, as if an elephant is stomping its feet somewhere around me. But that is a stupid metaphor. It’s louder than that, by many decibels. I slide off the piano stool and crawl on all fours to the window. I slowly raise my head up from the ground and peek over the windowsill. There it is. A huge, red, towering monster of a crane, moving ominously across the road with a bundle of bricks. What is it doing? The bundle is swinging wildly, backwards and forwards like a pendulum out of control. I follow it with my eyes, slightly hypnotised until I realise… There is no one in the drivers seat.
Jumping back in horror, I see the bundle of bricks glide through the air in slow motion...
I haven't quite finished yet.
Um.... Yes, that was a mistake. 
I fixed it! 