Brave

Submitted by Willow Whispers to Contest #3 in response to: Write a story about an ordinary day in a person's life. Use their internal dialogue to make the story interesting.... view prompt

I sit, very still. If I stand up, then they will see me. If I move to the sides, the thorns will prick me. Either way, I'm going to die. I don't struggle, not anymore. I've learnt that struggling is bad.

Bad, bad, bad.

They laugh at you when you struggle, just like they did when I first came here.

Bad, bad, bad.

I shudder.

My throat burns, more than ever. It feels as though a ball of fire has gone through it. I've never had a ball of fire go through my throat before. But they won't be afraid to do it.

They're not afraid. They're never afraid. Not of the police, not of us, not of anyone. It's the other way around. We're afraid of them.


I tap my fingers, and think of something else.

I think of Dada.

Dada. I hadn't seen him for weeks. What has happened to him? Has he died? Been killed by... them?

If they do, then I think that I'd kill them. Or at least seek revenge for the rest of my life.

But they won't be afraid to kill him.

No matter how much I threaten them.


I shake the thought out of my head. No. He can't be. I try to relax. I think of the last words Dada had said to me before he went.

Be brave Willow. Be brave.

Those words are marked in bold in my head. It's the only thing that keeps me going. I remember every little bit about it, even how Dada had said it. He had been crying. It was the only time that I'd ever seen him cry. I had covered my eyes then. But now, I would do anything, to see Dada again, even if he's crying.


I still think of Dada. His gentle voice and his big, brown eyes that remind me of hot cocoa on a Sunday afternoon.

I want to stop this life. I want to be just like any other seven year olds. I don't want the Green Stone anymore. I want to give it back.

But I won't. Never, ever, ever

If I do, I would betray Dada. I wouldn't want to betray him even though he betrayed us.

I would be doing them a favour. And I don't want to help them. I will never want to help them.


Brave.

It's a good word, yet a bad word at the same time. I don't like it, yet I do. It's confusing. Just like maths. I hate maths. But the word 'Brave' is okay.


Part of me says that other kids would want to be me, skipping school and on an adventure.

But if they knew what it was really like, I don't think that they would be nearly as keen.


They finally go away. I can stand up now. But I don't move too much. I just straighten my back.

It hurts.

I pick at the scab which I had gotten two weeks ago, from falling off the wall. They had nearly got me that time.

Nearly.

Luckily I acted fast, and ran away before they could react.

Big mistake.

The number one rule of being a fugitive, is to NEVER, EVER run. Always hide, cause they've got pistols and you don't. I have an advantage though. I'm fast.

And I have to thank that advantage or I would've been caught.


I go out when I'm completely sure that they've gone. First, I take a GIANT stretch and pat my poor old back which has stayed hunched up for too long.

Ouch.

I step out of the prickly bush, and take off my bag. I go over to the hollow hole in the tree and peer down. There's no one inside.

Good.

I step into it. I'm small for my age, so it's easy for me. I can just slip in without any problem.

I take out the two squashed avocado sandwiches that have slightly gone off.

But you'll find that it tastes good after not eating for ten hours and sitting in a prickly thorn bush without moving.

I've gotten used to it.

The first day, it was bad.

Real bad.

I had all these scrapes from where the bush had pricked me, and I had to keep moving to scratch them.

I had nearly been caught.

At least I'm still alive.

I wolf down the two soggy sandwiches and take out my water bottle. And just saying, it looks like any other water bottle. It's a pink one, with no cool details on it or anything. Just so you know.


There's only a tiny bit of water left, but I drink it anyways.

It's good. I'd filled it up near the river a few days ago. It's not so pure now, but I can't complain. It's better than nothing.


There's still an hour until they come back, so I take out my precious emerald green notebook, and start to write.

I don't write secrets, just in case they take it. Instead, I write poems. Sad ones, and happy ones. Long ones and short ones.

All poems.

Never anything else.

It makes me feel as though I'm telling someone my story. I feel clean, fresh, normal. Like Dada was when he had taken Mam to the Winter Festival. They had dressed up. Dada in a clean, crisp white shirt.

Clean. Crisp. All words that would probably never have anything to to do with me again.


I close my notebook up and head back to the bush. I clutch the Green Stone. If they take it, they would rule the world. And then, this bad world would be turned into an even more disastrous one. I sit down in my usual spot, pop the stone into my pocket and pull up the zipper. It's not the smartest hiding spot for it, but I don't have anywhere else very safe to put it.

I bite my tongue and wait.


I guess you wouldn't call this sort of life ordinary, but it's mine. I don't like it, but at least I'm not dead.

I just wish I can be normal again... And if I'm not normal, At least I'll be brave.

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4 likes 2 comments

13:16 Oct 08, 2019

Very good! Quite a dark tone, from someone so young! Keep it up!

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01:08 Oct 09, 2019

Thanks for all of the appreciation! I try my best to make my stories interesting:)

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