The Camp

Chapter 2

When I next opened my eyes it was the middle of the night or so I presumed as it was pitch black outside except for a miniscule crescent of light that shone out from the neighbour's porch lamp. Their cat yowled, its haggard cries rising into the nights crisp air and finally coming to a rest in my bedroom where they seemed to ricochet off the walls. Chowder- my own cat who had been peacefully curled in a ball by my feet shot up onto all four paws and looked around in shock in the stark moonlight.

The Nickelson's were one of the only families on the block who still received electricity after dark, the rest of the street was cut off until the following morning when even then the power was hit and miss.

Their cat, who I believe was named Pringles, meowed again at the top of his lungs, a scratchy, broken sound that made Chowder's porcelain ears prick up in the darkness. I watched as he found his way off of my bed and wound round the mess until he was positioned strategically below the window, leaning back before springing up to the window ledge. As he did, I watched as his back curled and each individual hair stuck up on end. He wound up his own little foghorn and began to scream back at Pringles.

Squinting my eyes, I waited for the commotion to quiet down but after five minutes of incessant yowling found myself staggering across my room in the shadowy moonlight. As I reached Chowder and hooked a hand under his rounded belly, I caught a glimpse of Pringles, pawing desperately at the neighbour's screen door. He was scrawny and what little covering of fur he had left was heavily matted against his side, one of his ears was missing and the other had a deep cut, probably the remnants of a forfeited cat fight. His once luxurious tabby markings had now been replaced with clumps of dirt and a slick sheen of oil that indicated his lack of cleanliness.

For a second nothing happened, I stood gazing at him out of the window with Chowder wriggling in my arms and a lightheaded feeling in my head.

Finally, a light turned on inside the house and Mrs Nickelson appeared at the door, bleached blonde hair in rollers, wrapped in a baby pink silk dressing gown. I watched as the ratty thing crept in by her feet and stayed completely still until I had seen her close the door forcefully behind herself. With a breath of relief, I carried Chowder back to my bed, his fluff protruding out of my arms in various directions. Kneeling first to let him down I pulled back the covers on my bed, a mere sheet that was of hardly any use in winter but as it was mid-summer it was more than enough and covered my small body completely.

I spent the rest of the night drifting in and out of sleep, occasionally waking up to the stuffy midnight heat of my bedroom before drifting back into a deep sleep.

Beep... Beep.... Beep...The stark cries of the alarm clock was enough to fling me back to reality, never mind the deep contrast between the night-time silence and the daytime bumble. I groaned, sliding back into a light doze before a sudden thought tugged at my brain. Groggily sitting upright, I rubbed my crusty eyes and blinked several times before they adjusted to the newness of the morning light. Feeling sick to my stomach with hunger I dragged myself from the warm embrace of the bed and stood drowsily in the centre of my room. For a second nothing registered, the sun-bleached paleness of my room shocked me and the bad headache that was beginning to form clouded my head. Slicing through the fog like a knife came the sudden feeling that I was supposed to be somewhere. Glancing back at the alarm clock I noticed the flashing green numbers change from 06:01 to 06:02. With a feeling of relief, I began to stumble down the hall, dragging my bare feet along the course wooden floor boards, I only made it a few steps down the hallway before a splinter of wood drove deep into my foot and sent me hobbling back for my slippers.

Feet now secured safely in my shoes I traipsed down the hallway and came to a stop beside the usually closed door, it was now hanging wide open on dilapidated hinges showering light into the darkened room. Inside I could see her frail frame, a curled figure sitting atop a tangle of metal pipes. My father had built that chair, from spare parts that we'd found lying around the back yard: the collapsed frame of a bicycle, the bundle of springs from an old sofa and a few rusty screws. He'd collected the joints from his plumbing job, pocketing the odd corner pipe or the wrong sized t-crossing. Then one hot afternoon we had driven holes into the metal with a faded screwdriver and bolted it all together.