War Torn

• Luisa Walker, Grade 7
• Short Story
• 2014

It’s 5am. I’m lying in my bed, eyes staring at the crisp white ceiling. Waiting … waiting for time to pass. My father is out in town doing chores, on his return we will be leaving to venture in the neighbouring forest.
I continue to wait. Somehow time seems to be passing more slowly than before.
TICK, TICK, TICK
Three hours pass and still my dad is not home. I begin to worry. Maybe there was an accident; maybe his boss was not pleased with his tips and made him stay on at work.
I turn to the window and my heart stops for an instant. Below, hundreds of soldiers march past our beautiful garden destroying our bright, peach coloured petunias. My jaw drops to a level I only thought possible for anacondas and my face drains of all colour. I fall to the floor, alone.
I come to my senses, when the room is bursting with the blinding light of the mid-day sun. I lift my hand to shield the light and quickly turn away. My olive coloured skin is stained with blood; my hand has a deep gash- opened from a pocket knife that I stupidly left open on my bedroom floor. Slowly, I regain enough strength to stand up. My head is throbbing from the pain of hitting my head on the floor’s mahogany planks.
I stagger into the bathroom to retrieve some band aids for my damaged hand. My hand reaches for the draw but a deafening sound stops me. It is a gunshot; I had heard it many times before- when a sheep had to be quickly put down or when a race started at the neighbouring track. Swiftly, I swing around and run for my room. I need somewhere to hide. I don’t know where the shot came from but it sounded too close for comfort.
I grab my heavy, khaki bag and my sleeping bag and jump through the window. Forgetting my injured hand, I run towards the dark forest in the distance. Sprinting, I cross our fields filled with the fresh, autumn crops and over the steep hills. The forest is heavy, auburn trunks cast eerie shadows on the leaf littered ground. I follow the rough path, brambles hanging over their boundaries sting me. My heart feels like it is beating out of my chest. When I was young I had been told spooky stories of lost adventurers in this forest, none ended with the hero returning.
Eventually I reach a clearing. To my left is the river is a chocolate coloured sweep of water, to my right a thick gathering of bushes and shrubs showing off their prickly thorns and tangling roots. A sudden tiredness envelops me and I have no energy to continue on my journey. I fall to the damp cold ground. Is this all I have to live for in my war torn life?