Why

• Freya Peters, Grade 4, Chewton Primary School -
• Short Story
• 2018

Excellence Award in the 'Write Along 2018' competition

I stand, looking out over the sandstone cliffs to the wild ocean beyond, feel the wind in my hair, and breathe in the damp, salty air, a flock of seagulls settling on the beach, only to take flight again in a large, aggravated swarm. I focus on the faint murmurings of the sound of waves sweeping the pure white sand, growling, purring, sighing. My eyes flit over to the glistening ocean, and I spot a pod of dolphins frolicking among the waves, splashing and playing, whistling and calling to each other.
I turn around, picking my way through the clover and daisies to the picnic, and see that Cecy is swinging upside-down out of an apple tree, laughing and giggling as she does so. She notices me and drops down, running over and falling down in a heap on our tartan picnic blanket, her skirt floating softly about her. She breathes a deep sigh, her hazel eyes twinkling in the warm sunshine as she looks at me.
‘Should we go now?’, I say gently, trying to let it sink in slowly, and calm her down a little.
Her grin slowly fades and then it turns into a frown. “But I don’t want to go,”she says, giving me those begging, watery eyes. I swallow, “We have to go,” I say, “Aunt Arabella will realize that we have gone soon, and she will punish us if we don’t return now”.
I look at her pleading eyes, her trembling lip, and try to hope that this is all a dream, and that I will wake up in the morning and go on life as usual, knowing that mother and father are still alive, and that our awful aunt is nowhere close to us, perhaps on the other side of the world, even.
But no matter how hard I wish, dreams are not reality, and life is real.

The cane comes swishing down, landing in my palm, leaving an ugly red welt oozing across my hands.
Cecy stands nearby, clutching her own hands, and crying out whenever our aunt brings the cane swooping down on my hands.
I hold back the tears, trying to be tough for her, wishing that we hadn’t been so silly as to climb out that window without checking where our aunt would be first.
She pauses for a second, face flushed with anger, and then there’s a streaking pain across my hands and I can’t hold it in any longer.
*
I am ready to go now, I think, as I feel my life slipping away from me, the knife held so gently in my hands.
And now I know Why.