The Burning Girl

Chapter 3 - A N N A

AN- Hi to whoever reading. Just wanted to know if the story is good and that you are enjoying it? I'm loving writing it, even thought the ideas for this were created last year! Finally getting round to putting it on paper... well metaphorically speaking.

DON'T BE A SILENT READER AND MAKE ME SMILE!

VOTE COMMENT SHARE :) :) :) :)

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Sometimes, in my room I just lie back and look up out of my skylight and just wonder what my life would be like with James still here. He would be 28 now; maybe married with little James Juniors running round. I have pictures of him all over my blue painted walls. James holding me as a baby for the first time, James and I running across this massive field in Wales, laughing and me running away from him. We look alike, him and I. Anna and James; James and Anna. Dark brown hair, blue eyes, fair skin, tall and strong. James' eyes were the type of blue that any girl would fall for. A deep ocean blue, with flecks of yellow-green that would catch the light and light his face up. That face brings so much joy to me now, dreaming of a better life with him and his laughing, blue eyes.

"Anna! where are you?" My mother pushes my bedroom door open and walks in backwards holding the laundry basket. "Oh!" she exclaims, as she sees me on my bed, legs up against the wall, reading. I turn to glance over my shoulder at her; she always looks tired these days. Her dark, curly hair; wild around her head, with bolts of grey twisted through it. Her sharp green eyes and arched eyebrows are beautiful. My mother is beautiful; but not in the skinny legs, flat stomach kind of way. She is tall and strong; slender yet muscular. When she was younger, she could outrun all the boys in her village, with her long legs and determination. My Da always said she was as tough and strong as a shire horse. I'm not sure if that was a compliment, yet Da always said it with affection.

"I just came to see if you were ok?" she asks. "You've been in here so long, I thought you might be hungry?" I turn over and look at my clock, 3:15pm. I slowly sit up, hoping to avoid a sudden head rush. I stretch my arms up into the air, enjoying the pop and click of my joints and muscles loosening. "Thanks Ma,that would be great," I say as I walk over to her. We go downstairs in tandem, her lugging the laundry and me feeling guilty. I should have helped her with all the chores this weekend, instead of reading. I get so lost in a story that it seems like I'm living in it. I would do anything to escape my own story, to leave behind all this pain.

We walk through into the kitchen and I throw myself down into one of the big armchairs by the stove. It's a big red Aga, heat belching out of it, keeping the house warm. The kitchen is a comfortable room, with its dark cream walls, dark wooden floor and Persian rugs. The rugs are red and gold, with geometric blues and greens creating flowers and mandalas. The rugs cover almost every inch of the kitchen floor; save under the big oak table and near the back door. My mother hands me a cup of tea and busies herself over the stove.

After a few minutes of magic, she produces a steaming plate of scrambled eggs, with toast, bacon and tomatoes. The smell of salt makes my mouth water instantly and my stomach rumble. I hadn't realised I had missed breakfast, so I eagerly take the plate and start eating. My mother makes the best eggs in all of England. Sweet enough to satisfy, and salty enough to keep me wanting more.

" 'fank oo," I say through my mouthful, happily chomping away. My mother laughs her sweet tinkly laugh and spins away towards the sink. She starts washing the dishes methodically, she tells me it calms her down. Really though, I think she just super OCD and can't have random plates and cups lying around. Everything needs to be tidy. After a few minutes my plate is added to the pile.