Cold air slaps my face, but it’s not unpleasant. Out here, by the ocean, I can finally breath without knowing there’s someone watching me.
It’s not that I don’t like being Mrs. Popular. I’d rather be that then anything else, but sometimes you just want to be left alone.
None of my friends know of my passion for writing and reading. Sure, they know I’m in the top Maths and English sets, but they don’t know I’m top of them.
Out here, I can be who I really am. No makeup to weigh me down, no image that I have to live up to.
A week ago, I finished the manuscript for my first novel. I was so proud of myself, I really was. It was hard work completing it during my free time with the whole school looking over my shoulder.
But then I realised there was no one to show it to.
My parents? Never. They’d want to know why I was wasting my time on that when I could have been working on extra credit projects or my algebra.
They’re not pushy like some parents are, but they aren’t really all that interested on what I want to do. Both of them are lawyers, and that’s what they want me to be.
I hate complaining about my life, though. There are thousands upon thousands of children out there, starving with no parents to come home and hug them, to tell them it’s Ok. There’s no one to love
But there’s no one to hear me out here.
I look up to the sky and see the sun setting. A sun set is perhaps the most wonderful and glorious sight ever. The golden oranges and reds that are reflected in the salty waters make you feel like
For a world full of war and starvation, it really is beautiful.
Two weeks we’ve been out here now. It has been the perfect holiday. Thanks to my rich parents, we have been staying in perhaps the best hotel in the world. A spa, swimming pool, en suite rooms,
amazing food and all round friendly staff. It’s exactly like the description in the catalogue.
But that’s not the only reason. My parents have been so busy keeping up with work calls, I’ve been able to do whatever I like whenever I like. Otherwise, I would never have been able to whiteness
I hold in my hands the book in which I’ve handwritten the first half of my manuscript. When I bought it, I couldn’t buy one big enough for the whole story or it would be too suspicious. I open the
cover and see the book
cover I made myself using Picasa 3.
Now I move my fingers gently over the smooth picture, imagining I was the girl in my story. I could imagine her every thought, movement and word. Anyone who read it would think they understood her.
But they didn’t.
Not like me.
I turn my attention to the frothing water. Reaching out to touch it, I notice something in the distance. A light, not very bright, but definitely there. Carefully, I close the cover of my writing
book and lay it on the sand on top
of the second half of the manuscript.
“Hello!” I call out, listening to the wind carrying my voice away. No one responded. Curiosity getting the better of me, I pull off my top and jeans to reveal the swimsuit I am wearing underneath.
Keeping my eye on the
mysterious light, I begin to wade slowly into the water.
It is chilly, but not cold enough to make me shiver. When I am covered in water up to my waist, I call out again,
“Hello? Is anyone there?” this time, I swear I hear a faint reply. Help me it said. I wasn’t going to take any chances.
Soon I was at a depth to swim in. Thankful for Mrs Carnie and her swimming lessons, I go further and further out into the ocean.
“Is anyone there?”I cry out as I saw that I am now really far from the sandy beach I’ve just left. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea as I thought it was. No reply this time.
Now I begin to feel the familiar shudder of fear. Desperately, I try to swim back to shore, but the waves are powerful and the wind is picking up.
It’s now my time to scream for help. But no one answers me.
I do all I can to stay above the water, but my attempts are futile. The strong hands of the water are pulling me down, trying to claim me.
Tears leak onto my face, but I keep struggling. I am not going to give up. Never give up.
Nothing’s that easy, though.Before long I am dragged under the water for long periods of time, and when I return to the surface it’s not enough time to catch my breath.
Is this it? I remember the words of my novel, and it seems like the Gods are playing some sick joke of fate on me.
Now I am totally submerged. I don’t see tropical fish or plants around me like they show you in films, nothing but endless metres of water.
I gasp for air, but of course there is none to catch.
My thoughts begin to fade. I’ve lost the battle. I’m drowning, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
And I have only one regret.
I never showed anyone who I am. Who I was...
Twenty Four hours later...
“Sir!” the officer called out, gesturing for his superior to come to him.
“Gods,” the Detective muttered as he covered his mouth. The corpse on the beach was not yet fully grown; the girl could only be fifteen. Her brunette hair was drenched and her lips blue. He had
seen enough cases
like this to know what had happened.
“Found these a little further up the beach, sir,” the officer handed the Detective two books, both obviously well used. Flicking through the one on top, marked in biro ‘One’, he saw the pages upon
pages of a female’s
“They must have been hers,” he concluded aloud. Nodding, the officer added,
“Look at the end sentence of the last page in the second book,”, confused, the Detective did as the officer said. As he read the words, he looked back at the body, mouth open.
‘I felt myself end, submerged in the water. It wasn’t sad. I never killed myself, I succeeded in what I wanted to do. I tell you these words from my seat in heaven. I tell you so you can tell my
parents the truth.
Tell them I love them,’.
The Detective looked at the body for a long time. While he stood, the parents arrived and were dragged off the scene, screaming and crying out for their lost daughter.
He only left when the sun set, intent on giving the books back to the parents himself.
Lorraine Jasper’s work was complete, but his had only just begun...
The novel Lorraine is meant to have written.
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