So I sit here and stare at the screen and think. The words must come to me they just have to come to me. Taunted by an evil cursor that seems to mock me and the silence that could make a pin drop sound like a Japanese earth quake the very notion of me being able to write anything by the time my deadline rolls up is almost absurd. I mean who can write a piece, properly, within 15 minutes and get away with it? That must be blasphemy of the highest order to the Gods of the words.

The words, they must come though right? There is no way that they would get me this far then finally desert me when I need them, well not most but need them none the less. It hasn’t been easy though you know. Since “the event” no one seems willing to just put it as it is. Mother died, she was killed by father and he is now in prison pending judgment. Why is it so hard to understand and most of all why is it interfering with my writing? I have been doing this fine all through middle school and now that I need to write my application for this scholarship the words just won’t come? How hard can it be really? I mean, why is it that all I can see is his face? His drunken red eyes as he staggered into the front door.

 

I can remember the day as if it was yesterday, okay fine it was yesterday but still the image in my head is so sharp, so vivid, so alive. It is as if Sony took their latest 3d technology and filmed those terrifying moments then streamed them into my conscience, downloaded them and pressed play then replay and replay and somehow now it is a continuous loop in my head… Ugh… I remember him walking into the house drunk as a drunkard (I don’t get why we say drunk as a fish it makes no sense to me). He sat down and called to her, once, twice just as he was about to call her the third time, she showed up. I remember him calling her al sorts of names for showing up late. Then the floodgates opened, blow after devastating blow they came.

 

That isn’t even the most disgracing part. I remember myself shivering like a baby left alone outside on a late autumn evening. Sitting silently and watching, cursing myself for being in a wheelchair, for being utterly helpless and scared stiff. Sitting and watching, then not watching but backing of to my room where I could hear her cries. Mother, superwoman, begging to be spared. Why didn’t she just fight back? Not that she could take him but at least she could try. What was wrong with me? I should have done something, anything. But I didn’t did I? Nope! Poor helpless broken battered me just sat in my room and covered my head with my pillow… and cried. Like a girl. Like a bloody 3 year old, I love ponies and barbies, pink is my favorite colour girl I cried. Let the tears cascade down my cheeks and wet my favourite pillow. More and more until I fell into the deep blackness that is sleep with nothing but a slight headache.

 

The headache is gone now. It went as soon as the police walked out the door and left me with my Aunt Suzie. She is meant to be “looking” after me but I just think she saw it as an opportunity to live in a large house in Muthaiga where the houseboys would tend to her every need. I bet she doesn’t even know that I need to send in an application to Oxford tomorrow. Damn! The application. I must write. The words, the words will come though. I know they will. They have to come, they just have to.

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