Bonfire Night
7.05pm
I've started writing back in my old old diary again, on pen and paper. It's little and blue with a leather strap and button that magically clicks into place when you swing the strap to close it. Blue was never my favourite colour, it was a boys clour. The only reason I kept the diary was because of the amazing magnetic button. At seven years old it seemed like the most magical thing in the world, after Father Christmas. I've not written in this diary for years. When I pulled it off the top of my wardobe it was dusty, clouds of dust rising and falling in the air like fairy dust, settling over everything, my seven year old self all over my things again. I've always kept a diary, but in the last few years it's been a techno-diary, on my Iphone, Ipod, and my Ipad. I'm not spoilt, honest! But I had to stop that. He hacked into all of them, I don't know how, and read everything. But I cannot let him affect my dream of being a writer. So I decided the traditional diary was best. He can't hack into that, can't get his cold, sinister fingerprints all over my diary, evil embedded into the page. It's bonfire night! I love Bonfire night. Our sleepy Village, with its thatched cottages, misty fields and milky orange skies comes to life. i'm hoping he'll leave me alone tonight. Just one night, that's all, one night to have fun without feeling his dark sinister presence nearby, his foreboding shadow in the corner of my eye, lurking in the safety of the trees. He can't be there tonight. For once I want to have fun. Uninterrupted. I'm going with my parents, and my little brother and little sister. Don't worry, I do have a social life. I'll be meeting my friends later. Every year our village green holds a firework do, with a huge, glowing bonfire and hundreds of sparkling, breathtaking fireworks, that light up your eyes. There's always a stall selling hot chocloate and chilli and stuff, and sparklers, and you can even bring marshmallows to toast on the mini bonfire. Most 16 year olds would think it lame to go to something like that with your family, but I don't mind. it means I'll be safe from him. Our village is on the East coast of Scotland, and only a thousand people live here. There's a tiny primary school, and a high school, and a few shops, a newsagents and a butchers and a supermarket, and a few little parks, with sparkling green grass wet with dew. There's a little beach just outside our house, that either has wild, crashing white horses flying into the rocks, or calm little ripples, only visible by the milky moonlight. Once I saw him stood there, looking directly into our house. Up at my bedroom. I know it was him. His dark sillhouette against the moon, short hair, broad shoulders, foreboding stance. I don't know why I'm writing this. No one would believe me. I'm not sure if I believe myself. If it wasn't for the messages of course. But I must get ready now. I've picked out my skinny red jeans, a wooly maroon jumper, and my maroon converse. I'm just waiting for my hair to dry. Our hairdryer has broken - Milo chewed it.
I look out of the window. The sea is calm tonight, and the moonlight illuminates the soft ripples. Outside there is a coulple walking hand in hand, a girls head tucked snugly, safely under the mans chin. There's a dog on the rocks. It's quite big. I squint and peer close to the window. It turns and looks at the window. That's not a dog.
I draw my butterfly curtains closed as quick as a flash, but it's too late he's seen me and I've seen him, his piercing stare burns through the curtains into that back of my head, his sinister presence etched into my brain.
"Han!" My Mum calls up the stairs. "Hannah, you need to get ready! 15 minutes!" Her voice drifts up the stairs and under my door, bringing me back to realisation with a flash. "Okay..." I murmur back. I peer at myself in the mirror. Hmm. My hair was damp but it would have to do. I scrunched it up on top of my head and watched the damp, wispy blonde curls escape, framing my pale face, making my eyes stand out, a startling jewel green. Was there fear in my eyes? I couldn't let him see it. Never. I could never show weakness.
7.30 pm
We approach the village green. There are crowds of people everywhere, little children squealing, clutching sparkelers, eyes lit up, sparkling, not a care in the world. Groups of teenagers stand around chatting and laughing, picking each other up, feeding each other chilli. Elderly people sit huddled on benches with pots of steaming food, looking around the spotless Village Green, the grass a vivid emerald green, the blazing orange bonfire alive and free, looking up into the inky black sky, dotted with stars, waiting for the magic to happen. Anyone, of any age can enjoy fireworks. Puffs of smoke appear and disappear as people chat in the cold, looking like a friendlier version of dragons breathing smoke. I look around, and breathe out a sigh of relief. I can't see his figure lurking anywhere, his broad silhouette peering behind a tree, in the doorway of a shop, peering conspicuously behind a newspaper.
I've watched the scariest of films with my friends, mass murderers in hotels, demons haunting schools, possessed clowns; everything. But nothing is as scary as him. A dark figure in the bushes, his possessiveness drowning me in fear.
"Hannah? Han, you okay?" My Mums worried tone brings me back to my surroundings
"Mmm? Yeah, yeah, just day dreaming."
"Okay, well do you want chilli, tomato and basil soup, or jacket potato?"
"Chilli please."
Mum walks off, with Dad in tow, towards a stall with a que of huddled figures spilling out of the huge tent. I shiver and hold on to my 5 year old sister, Amber's hand. Will whines and tucks his little four year old hand into mine. I grip both their little hands and put them both into my pocket. They both giggle.
"Come on, lets go and see the bonfire! Which one do you want to look at? The baby bonfire or the big Mummy bbonfire?"
"The big one!" Will squeals.
We head over to the big bonfire, its orange flames reaching out, reaching up towards the stars.
NOT FINISHED.
