Leaving Home

• Alanah Phillips, Grade 7
• Short Story
• 2017

The hills and valleys rolled past, rich, green pasture lined them, and the rain blanketed the mountainside. I stared out at the cows, dripping, their heads hung, staring so miserably at the bus as it passed. Lightning broke the dark sky in two, the clap of thunder that followed ricocheted off the mountains, shaking the world with a roar so loud that nothing could compare to. Trees stand triumphantly against the wind, though the roaring wind blasts their branches, they dance against it, even harder as the wind whistles in its branches.
All I can hear is the steady roar of the bus’s engine, and the consistent thud of raindrops making their suicide plunge to the ground. In the distance, I can hardly make out the grey lined fence, its iron posts rusted an orange red in places, and it grows larger as we come closer. I can see weeds entangled through the barbed wire, vines with alluring purple flowers, lantana engulfs the fence in places, grass twisted around the posts. And when we hit the grid, it growls underneath the wheels, I know I won’t be coming back.
It’s been hours since I left the farm, its rolling hills and its forests of old pine trees and fallen logs. We made it to the bitumen long ago, and since I can hardly remember how the dirt feels beneath the wheels. There are more of us now, little kids crying for their mothers, girls with bubble gum pink hair, older boys with headphones in their ears, blissfully unaware of where we are. For a long time I sat feeling sorry for myself, sorry that I had to leave, angry at my parents for making me, but I realise now that I was wrong. I wasn’t the only one here who had to leave, but still, I feel empty inside.
I have no memory of ever making it to the airport, going through security, or of boarding the plane. Nor have I any memory of the flight attendant ever asking us to put on our seat-belts. I can’t remember ever taking off. But I remember flying. Seeing places I could have only ever dreamed of from the air. I think I see my property, amongst those hundreds of patches of random shades of green. I can remember the smell of lurid smell of the thick, black smoke, and the heat from the fire. I can remember the loud bang, the screaming people, I can remember standing, and I can remember falling. And nothing else. Apart from leaving home.