Never Give Up

• Kirsty Dalton, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2014

My heart was pounding. My legs ached. Sweat poured off my face. I’d just hiked forty kilometres, and as I rounded the last bend I could see my destination at the top of the ridge – a castle, in the wilds of the English countryside; far from my homeland of Africa.

The castle stood majestically on the cliff. The spire pierced the sky like a needle passing through cloth, juxtaposing the servants quarters – crumbling like a half eaten biscuit.

I wiped my hand across my withered face. I could feel my scarred skin – remnants of my distant past. Bullets, dying. Blood, tears. The images were burned into my brain, branded into my psyche. Although I was scarred by the events, there was a sense of security in the violence.

As I walked to the cliff’s edge, I noticed the pathway to the castle, cut into the countryside like a fresh wound. I reached the edge, and peered over. The drop was so immense that individual trees were undetectable in the sea of green.

Like many others, I was conscripted into the African militia at a young age. By the age of ten, I had ended many men’s lives. The killing didn’t horrify me; we were all used to death. I didn’t have friends; there was a too high a risk of becoming attached to someone, only for them not to return. By the end of my career, I was rich from the spoils of war.

Good things can’t last though. When the civil war ended, there was no need for the militia – no need for me. I drifted from job to job, getting a little work here and there, but not enough to live off. Slowly my savings disappeared. My last few dollars got me to England for an attempt at a new future. I didn’t know what else to do.

Standing on the edge, overlooking the chasm, I realised how easy it would be. One step and it would be all over. United once again with the forest in my death, with my fallen comrades. But that isn’t my way. Taking the easy way out has never been for me. I would be disappointing my lost brothers; it would be like passing the ball five metres from the try line when there isn’t anyone in the way. It just wasn’t my way; I knew there would be a way forward.

As I walked back down the trail, an idea formed. I could find work, enough to allow me to buy the servants’ quarters of the castle. Fix them up a bit. Have a place for myself and other retired militia officers, child soldiers.

We could build a life. All of us together, sharing past experiences, healing our wounds. I could finally have friends who understood my experiences.

I smiled; hope emerging within me for the first time since the war. I could finally have the chance to do some good, to right my past wrongs. My future finally looks bright.