The Park

As I watched from my bedroom window, a crowd of children began to fill the snow covered park. Around them, the wind blew fiercely as each snowflake danced elegantly to the ground, together contributing to the thick white blanket smothering the trees and grass. Soft rays of sunlight peeked through the trees surrounding the park, reflecting brightly off the silvery blanket of snow. Whilst the girls built snowmen and made snow angels, the boys fought with snowballs laughing and shouting as they did so. As I moved closer to the window to get a better view, my breath condensed on the glass revealing pictures I had drawn the previous day. One of them showed my memories: mum pushing me in the swing with dad beside her laughing, just like the children outside. Beside it was a picture of reality: me sitting on the swing alone, wondering where mum was, too scared to ask.

Wiping the pictures away with my forearm, I was able to see outside again. The snow was beginning to get deeper and deeper, making it harder and harder to resist the urge to go outside. I could see my friend Rose clearing the slide as she shouted to the others for help. Fortunately, she was too busy to notice me. The red, bloodshot eyes, and runny nose would raise questions, and the excuse of having the cold was beginning to get old. Abruptly, Rose ran towards her mum, crying, whilst holding up her right arm revealing the sleeve of her new coat, dripping wet. I couldn't really understand her problem: if the sleeve of my new coat was wet from the snow, I would be delighted; delighted to be outside enjoying the holiday with everyone else. Instead, however, I am stuck here, watching. Watching the children, my friends, my enemies, my classmates play in the snow.

Looking away from the window into my bedroom, my eyes took a second to adjust to the darkness. Eventually, the grim reality came into focus. My door was firmly shut, to keep out the noise of my dad shouting at the blaring TV behind which a pile of washing lay untouched for months. Spiders’ webs hung from the ceiling and a thick layer of dust smothered everything. My bed was made, but the sheets were stained and unwashed and in the corner of the un-hoovered carpet lay my only toys: an armless doll, and a few pieces of jigsaw.

The intensifying patter of snowflakes on the window reverted my attention back to the park. A large collection of snowmen were now beginning to litter the park as the crowd of children grew and grew. My urge to go outside and join them intensified with the patter but I knew it could be a step too far. Should I? Shouldn't I? I just wanted to go outside and play, and laugh, and dance, or smile even. As my heart told me to go outside, my head told me otherwise.

I had made my decision.

Stepping off the window ledge, my eyes took a second to adjust to the dim light. Swallowing deeply, my cold, sweaty, hands hung by my side. Stepping over the washing pile, I placed my hand on the door handle, still questioning my actions. Slowly, I pushed it down until it would go no further. Pulling it open, the sound of the TV blared into my bedroom, covering the screeching of the rusty hinges. Stepping forwards, the floorboards creaked almost inaudibly, covered by the sound of the TV, yet still enough to make me stop. Slowly, I released my hand from the handle. In an attempt to dry it off, I wiped it on my shirt, making me realise the absence of my jacket. Creeping back into my bedroom I stood before my wardrobe. Reaching up to the handle, I stepped onto my tiptoes, wondering why the handles had to be so high. Opening the door slightly with my right hand, I jammed my other in the door to stop it from swinging shut again. As I released my hand from the handle, I came down from my tiptoes whilst pulling open the door. The mirror on the inside of the door reflected back an image which made me stop. Reflecting back was an image I struggled to accept was me. A small tear ran down my swollen, bruised cheek onto my ripped, and dirty t-shirt. My swollen lip trembled as another tear began to form in my eye. Over my other eye hung my matted, unwashed hair touching my bloody nose.

In an attempt to forget what I had just seen, I reverted my attention back to finding my coat. Stretching out my arm, I grabbed a hold of it, ignoring the reflection at my side. Putting it on was a struggle: the arms were far too short, and the body too tight. I eventually squeezed in. Pulling the zip up past my mouth, I tried to reach for my hood. After a couple of attempts, I managed to grab a hold of it pulling it up over my hair. Turning back to the mirror, the reflection showed some bruises on my face were still exposed. Raiding through the rest of my few clothes, I attempted to find a scarf, whilst knowing I would be unsuccessful. Pulling my long sleeved jumper out from the cupboard, I had an idea. Tie-ing it around my face I had made a scarf, or more precisely, something to cover my bruises. The only bruise now visible was on my eye, impossible to cover. Ignoring it, I stepped away from the cupboard, and quietly swung the door shut.

Walking towards the already opened bedroom door, I again began to doubt myself. Testing each floorboard for creaks before I stepped, I slowly edged forwards towards the top of the stairs. Step by step, I neared the bottom. The TV blared louder than ever, as dad shouted over the top. His speech was slurred and often not understandable, with half the words either made up, or ones I didn't know. If I made a noise now, I wouldn't be able to go outside for weeks, months even.

Looking back up the stairs, I doubted my actions once more, knowing that I could come to no harm up there. But down here. Well that was a different story.

I had got this far though. I couldn't turn back.

Not now.

Stepping down the last step, the feeling of relief overwhelmed me. I hadn't slipped. I hadn't made a noise. I was on the home straight. Creeping along the corridor the door was now inches away. Cigarette smoke danced before me in the draught from the smashed window. For a second, I stood watching it; however, I knew I had to hurry. Only a few more steps and I would be there, outside with everyone else playing, smiling, laughing. With arms at full stretch, I touched the door handle. Pushing it down slightly, I noticed something different. Something odd. The TV had quietened. The shouting had stopped. Turning around, I let go of the handle. On front of me, with a cigarette in one hand and his 'juice' in the other, was Dad. Panic ran through me as I turned around swiftly, ready to run for my life. Reaching for the handle once more, the eerie silence from behind made me stop. There was no shouting. No running. Nothing. Turning around, I covered my head with my hands, expecting to have to protect myself from Dad's swings. I was wrong. On front of me, I seen him standing still, staring. At first, I thought it was at me. But no. He didn't even seem to notice me. It looked as though he looked right through me. His eyes were swollen and red, as though he had been crying. Lowering my arms, I watched him look up to the ceiling. His soft mutters broke the deathly silence.

'K...k...kate... I know you c...c...can't hear me... but... I'm sorry'