Leaving home

Slowly, the first day of Spring creaked towards me, growing faster and faster with every step it took. The closer it was, the more it stalked my dreams, the more it muddled my head, the more it froze my heart, like a slow, but unstoppable walk to the gates of death. It chased me through the vast planes of time, getting ever closer, while I remained stuck, unable to move, until finally, it caught up. Until the last day of Winter came, and I had to say goodbye not only to the biting winds and crystal snow, but to everything I had ever known. For tomorrow, I will have to leave. 

Jack frost had come in the night, taunting me, reminding me of the days when I had been free, and clutched his lengthy fingers around every tree, house, fence or bush. Every house was covered in a layer of snow, so delicate, if I had not known better, I would have called it a cloth of starlight. Every tree was draped in a maze of spidery strands, shining with jewel-like frost, more realistic than any rich kings hoard. Every door was encrusted in a hard layer of ice. Every door, except one. Loudly, a young lady cracked her door open, sending shards of splintery ice in all directions. This was her last view of home. She gazed out onto the countryside of Wardington, growing ever whiter as she stood, trembling. She lived in a small village, on the outskirts of Banbury, in England, and it almost never snowed there. To her, snow was magical, it turned the usually dusty, normal roads of the village to paintings of beauty, where the painter needed no colour to express his feelings onto the page. 

She wasn’t exactly what you would call and “elegant young lady” but she was young, and she was a lady. Her brown tinted green eyes reflected the snowy scene like mirrors of colour, and her sandy brown hair was shining in the growing sunlight, yet painfully never straight. She was the kind of girl who never looked sad, her tiny splatter of freckles and perfectly sized button nose gave her a sense if good-naturedness, that matched the sparkle in her eyes. But though her appearance was one of a happy, laughing girl, inside she was numb with sadness and fear. That girl, was me. 

Today was the day. The day I had to choose something that wasn’t even a choice. I had been told, from when I was a tiny child, what my answer would be, and I had never had any problems with it. Until now. I knew that only in my last, parting moments would I have allowed herself to feel this. Fear. I was scared. Scared of what was to come, scared of leaving her family, scared of everything new. I wanted life to stay like this forever, but I knew it couldn’t, even if I stayed. I must go. 

And life had to move on, change, adapt to the different obstacles that were thrown at it. This was my obstacle, would I let it run me down? Would I let it over come me? Was I weak for clinging on for so long? Or did that make me strong? Could only strong people be brave enough to reach down into their feelings, and find the truth of their love? Or were they the people who tried to hide behind their emotions, or make excuses out of heartache? What kind of person was which? Who did I wasn’t to be? What should I do? 

My mind still in the same, dreading state, nut three hours later, I walked towards the swirling mass of nothingness before me. It was a path, that path that I had to take. The path that I had been told for so long was the right answer, but my eyes still lingered upon the path on which I had arrived. Then it spoke. I’m still not sure what “it” was, I don’t think I ever will be, but “it” spoke with a voice that seemed to come, not from “it”, or the room, or even everywhere, but from myself, and my heart. 

"So, which path do you choose?" 

This was it. This was the moment. This was what I'd been waiting for this my whole life. I'd practiced and perfected my answer for years. This was finally the time to choose. So why was it so hard? Why had I not answered yet? Why was my head screaming to leave, but my heart was still clinging on? Why was my mouth dry as a bucket full of sand? Why were my feet grounded to the floor like magnets to metal? Why were my hands clenched like fists of battle, this was a peaceful courtyard, not a war zone? Why were my words deserting me? Why was my common sense battling with my feelings? Why couldn’t I leave? 

But then, something stirred in the back of my mind. A beautiful memory deep down. A young girl lifted sky high in a man’s arms, sea water lapping gently at their running feet. This was my family. Maybe not biological, but they had taken me in and loved me dearly as their own. My place was not with strangers who called themselves my “true family”, though I don’t know them. My place was here. My heart was not with nameless, faceless beings who claimed to be my “true parents”. My heart was with the caring, loving mum and dad who had raised me to be the caring, loving girl I was, and surely that meant more than blood? My life had not been in the magical realms of wonderland. My life had been here. I lived here. I loved here. I cried here. I hurt here. This was my home. 

But would I regret it? Would I sleep awake at night, wondering what would have been? Would my dreams be stalked by a memory never made? Would I never be able to look at the stars without wondering which one was mine? Would I never be able to call my family “family” without the painful stab of hopelessness? Would I forever imagine my life, had I chosen to go? Would I regret it? Did I want that? How could I live with myself, knowing that I had the choice, but didn’t take it? 

And deep down, I always knew, though I ignored it, though I imagined it differently. This is my life, and I will make my decisions. I know what to choose. I know what I always wanted to choose. I know. And now, I’ll choose. Whether I’ll regret it or not. I’ll choose and pay the price of it. This is my choice, my mistakes, my penance. My life.