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Kinsley - twelve years of age

I can hear my mother calling in the distance, most likely rambling on about something I’m to blame for. I roll my eyes so hard they almost fall into the back of my head. Opening them, I squint into the horizon, from the position of the sun I assume the time to be around 7.30am; half an hour before I can leave for school. What do you say Kinsley? Do you want to go inside, trap yourself indoors? With a mother who most likely just poured herself a glass of vodka, when she realised she had no milk for her coffee? Or, bask in the sun? The warmth of the morning sun answers the question for me, and I roll over, flopping onto my stomach.

I’m sure other parents would fret if their daughter wasn’t in the house when they woke up, but not my mum. I’ve been waking before the sun rises for a while now. Two years today to be exact. Some nights I’m not actually sure if I sleep at all; deep down I think she knows it too. Sitting up, I stretch my arms high, reaching for the sun as if my fingers were able to sweep across the sky, then I climb down the metal ladder attached to the side of the concrete water tank.

My feet sink into the damp soil at the base of the ladder. The concrete structure now blocks the sweet glow of the sunshine. The shade I now stand in mimics the weight of the shadows slowly circling me. It’s almost as if when I’m up there, I’m away from it all. It’s my escape.

I walk in through the back door, kicking my boots off as I go. ‘Good Morning, Meadow. Happy Birthday, Sweetheart.’ I sing under my breath, as the back door slams shut behind me. Pausing momentarily, I wait to see if she greets me. Well what do you know, silence. My footsteps echo down the hallway on the old wooden floor boards before I turn the corner into the kitchen, a single wrapped gift has been left on the kitchen table.

“Yeah, happy twelfth birthday to me,” I mutter.