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Red haired girl cupping her chin

Guardian angel

Our creative writing brief for last term was “Re-write a scene or story from the point of view of someone or something that none of the characters knew was watching.” Here is one of our entries.

I like to copy her movements. I pretend to grab the phone, carefully dial a number I’ve memorised and talk quietly, but my words are different. Her mousey brown hair falls down her flushed cheeks as she talks on the phone. I don’t know who she’s talking to, but she talks with them every evening. Her deep blue eyes reflect her sadness, like pools of crystal water, sitting still, deep in a cave never explored.

The girl, she can’t see me, but I can see her. I’ve watched her for a while. It’s strange but I like to pretend to be her, and pretend I have the same life as her.

Her room is cosy. Posters of all sorts of things scatter the weathered walls; blankets and old stuffed toys tossed in a corner long forgotten; piles and piles of unfinished work cover her desk and her glowing bed lamp illuminates the room in an orange glow. But she is dejected, desolate and depressed. I want to help but I can’t. I can’t do anything. I can’t wipe the tears that fall down her face every night or stand up for her when a nasty comment is made, or even just hug her when she sits, staring blankly into me or nothing, because I am nothing.

A loud bang disrupts the peaceful quiet. The girl tenses with worry – or fear – I can’t tell. Swiftly, she taps her light, plunging the room in darkness, as she wraps herself tightly in the blanket. She finally whispers into the phone before switching it off. The room is enveloped in a dimness of shadows; the posters on the wall suddenly become distorted, until their faces each twist into monsters, and the weak light illuminating outside seems to switch to gloominess. The cave is crumbling, and as it does the girl cries tears of despair. Another bang.

The door opens. The posters move to what they were, and the streetlight outside turns back to the white blinding glow it was before. A woman appears at the door, passes through me towards the now still girl. She picks her up, tightly holding the child. Surprisingly, she turns to me, her eyes pure and sympathetic.

“I’m sorry dear, but we have to go now,” she murmurs, her soothing eyes returning to the child. I feel like I recognise her.

“Miss, I…” I manage to slip out.

I blink. The window is open. The room’s curtains dance to the frigid wind as it brushes into the room. The woman is not here anymore, but the child still is. Her little body is unmoving; fixed forever. As a tear falls down my face, memories start to come back, why I’m here, following her, protecting her. But I failed to protect her in that little moment. That little crack led to the collapse.

I fade just as fast as her life did.

By Abigail Croft

Other entries from Welland Park Academy

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