Saturday Morning

• Karen De Raya, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2015

Nothing relaxed her more than the light patter of rain that danced upon the rooftop during the winter. Inside, a thick but sweet scent hung in the air, attributed mainly to the ceramic plates strewn about the table dotted with the remnants of her morning crumpets.

As if desperate to be closer to the source of the mess, the soft droplets clung to the glass window. A girl lay sprawled across a bed in the corner of the room, inspired by the quiet whispers of the outside world but unable to articulate them onto the blank paper that sat forlornly in front of her. Periodically she shot up, before sighing heavily and laying herself back down on her pillows, arms and legs flinging like a broken doll, an unbroken cycle that very quickly ate away at her insides. The chewed pen lid that lay beside her head, and the wafting fragrance of morning-old coffee mocked her, as she submitted to the scrunched up failures that decorated her bedroom floor. She was always close, but never quite right.

Having lost count of how many times she had contributed to the growing sea of paper swallowing the floor whole, the girl sat up and outstretched her arms above her head, before languidly making her way to the rain-specked window. Despite her petite build, the wood groaned under her step, bare feet shivering as they brushed the timber floor. With each stride the girl’s vivacious curls bounced, held together only by a chocolate-brown elastic band straining around the volume of her hair. The girl’s mother always picked on her for looking dishevelled, but she never took any notice, wiping her nose on her sleeve as she stared beyond the frosted glass. With nimble hands she deftly stroked the windowpane, so icy it burned her calloused fingertips.

But then came the noise. What had begun as a light patter of rain was now an unexpected torrential downpour, so livid it almost drowned out the wretched shriek that pulled at her soul and clawed at her ribcage.

With unease hurtling to the pit of her stomach, the girl rushed through the mass of paper that lay at her feet and bounded down the staircase, the sheer force of her scampering shaking the walls.

‘Are you okay?’

The girl was panting from her desperate attempt to reach the source of the scream before it ended. Her message was breathless, but audible nonetheless.

Wisps of ringlets hung over her face and the girl’s shoulders rose and fell as she fought for air and balanced herself against the wall for support, suddenly realising perhaps it would have been wise to have left more than just crumbs on her plate that morning.

‘Of course I’m okay,’ the little boy in front of her droned, preoccupied with his video game.
‘I don’t know about her though,’ he scoffed, diverting the girl’s attention to their sister that lay on the floor, whimpering in the foetal position.

‘Someone ate all the crumpets.’