Left Behind

• Xanthe Finnan, Grade 6
• Short Story
• 2019

Her crisp fingers clasped against my ear, the sole thing keeping me from slipping away into the gloomy depths of unconsciousness.
“Please, you can’t die, not like your Mother.”
These words are what finally make me drag my limp body off the damp grass. Quivering, I force my legs into what feels like a never-ending sprint to the security of the woods.
The comforting smell of eucalyptus fills the air and assorted leaves lie untouched on the forest floor. I find a seat huddled up between two sturdy semi-submerged roots and I lean my aching head on the trunk. A single sound stands out above all the foreign shouting: a scream of agony that could only have escaped the lips of my Grandmama. It has finally sunk in. I will never see her again. A migraine lingers tediously in my head and my skin is raw and bruised but the exhaustion is too much and I drift away into a profound sleep.
Everything is much more beautiful by day. The sun shines through an opening in the trees and Kookaburras cackle softly in the distance. On a day as fine as this we’d sit by the river, Father would fish, Grandmama would plait my hair while telling me stories of our ancestors’ endeavours. A smile spreads across my face but it is quickly wiped away as the realisation slips in that my life is different now.
I pull myself up from the sitting position I slept in. I take a moment to stabilise myself but soon I am heading off in the direction of the town. After all, I have nothing left to stay here for.
The soft leaves I walked on in the forest are traded for small rocks as I go barefoot along the long pebbled road. A wooden shack is the first clue I see of the town, but the buildings grow and grow and I can tell this town goes far longer than the eye can see. Women with foot long dresses and puffed sleeves roam around in the hands of rich men with embroidered suits. Colossal stallions pull carriages full of coal and a train horn bellows in the distance somewhere. Its beauty is too much to take in. For a moment I almost forget I am a homeless orphan in need of food.
Once the harsh reality comes rushing in, I sink to my knees, then drop to my side. Blood still seeps from the open gashes across my skin. Passers-by look down on me, then hurry away, some tugging the hands of children, some clutching their noses.
My mind wanders over my identity trying to grasp onto something to help me.
“My name is Indie, my family and I are outcasts, I don’t know why. I was raised by my Grandmama and Father, they were killed in an ambush. I am ten years old and I am completely lost, physically and mentally.”