Bits & Pieces

Embers

Embers

A/N - I wrote this a long while ago in my English lessons and I still like the idea of it, so I thought I'd add it in. It's not great, but I was quite a bit younger, so tell me what you think! Thanks!

Two months ago, my mother died in childbirth. My baby sister, dies with her that same day. That left my dad and I, alone. For the first few days after my mother's death, I felt utterly lost, consumed by grief. It was as if a part a part of me was missing; I seemed unable to function.

My dad, filled with grief and pain, sought out an escape, a way to dull the emotions he felt. He became an excessive drinker. I would sometime wake up, at an unearthly hour, to hear him, staggering and crashing, delirious, hollering something unintelligible. After two weeks of this, my father lost his job, and after a further two days, we were told more devastating news. If we didn't pay the mortgage, we would be evicted from our house.

I guess it was too much for him because the following Saturday, I received a phone call. It was the police. They told me his body had been found in Lake Thorpes, a place we used to go when I was younger. The case was non-suspicious, my dad had most likely committed suicide. He left me, not only without a mother, but now without a father as well. Tears had pricked my eyes, my whole body became numb. Orphaned. Orphaned and utterly alone.

The day after my dad's death, social workers came to my house. Yet gave me just half an hour to pack my things and leave for the orphanage. I packed a suitcase with clothes and other belongings, as well as a bag with my valuable things - my favourite book, my iPod and headphones, and the only picture of my parents and I that still existed. My father burnt the photo album when he was drunk. The picture depicts me, when I was eight, being picked up by mum. My dad has a protective arm around my mum too. I love this picture, it's one of my best memories. I have it with me, now, in the same bag I packed it in.

I only spent four days in the orphanage. I decided on the fifth day to run away. I took my bag and left. First, I went to my house; I still had a key. I took my dad's wallet, with money and cards untouched. I knew the pins, and at the cash machine, I withdrew as much money as I could from them. Then, I fled, not caring which direction I went in, not caring where I ended up. I only remember wanting to escape.

I am haunted by those images from only a few weeks ago as I walk across an empty pavement, shivering. Icy wind hits my face as I exhale a cloud of white breath. Such cold weather for early autumn. I have always loved autumn, especially the foliage - the golden brown's, soft ambers and vibrant reds of the leaves - that I usually don't mind the cold. However, it's getting dark, and late, and I need a place to spend the night. Small yet beautiful cottages spring up on my left, a dark, desolate terrace building in my right; it's broken windows and graffitied walls screaming neglect and misuse. Just next to it though, lies a little house. It's in the same condition as the terrace building - neglected and derelict. A perfect place to stay the night.

I walk up the pathway to the house, avoiding wild bushes and tall grasses that get in my way, threatening to trip me. The door hangs loosely on its hinges, and I give it a shove in an attempt to open it. The door swings back and a stale smell hits my nostrils. Quietly, I edge forward, my heart beating faster than usual. I reach out to switch the light on, but nothin happens. Great, I think, no electricity. Taking out my small lighter that I use as a torch, I climb up the stairs.

The landing is a mess, the carpet ripped away, a faded, patterned wallpaper peeling from the walls. No sign of anyone, I think I am alone. Twisting the doorknob of a room, I ease it open and enter.

My lighter brightens up the room a little and from what I can see, it looks like a fine place to spend the night. I walk forwards towards the bed in the centre of the room. The floor board gives way beneath my feed and I shriek as my right foot plunges through the floor. My still ignited lighter flies across the room. The floor is wooden, partly covered by a small rug, and catches fire immediately. I try desperately to pull my leg from the floor, but to no avail. I'm stuck, I think helplessly. Stuck in a burning room, and though most of my mind screams with panic, one part of me is calm. For some reason, I am not afraid.

As I survey the room - the amber room filled with tongues of flame - my eyes rest upon my bag. On its side, it's contents strewn across the floor. My iPod, headphones, a book, my photo. My photo. It's frame cracked, the glass broken. Angry orange flames move closer to it every second. I watch as they hungrily devour the photo, eating away the last of my happiness. When all that's left are singed remains, I close my eyes.

Conjuring up the image in my mind, I give in to the cold blackness that overwhelms my vision, until it engulfs me completely.