Short Story Competition!

The Imagined Landscape

by Victoria (Year 10)

Prompt: ‘The landscape of our childhood remains with us forever.’

The woman released the door handle from her clasp, swinging to a silent shut as she stepped outside. Her brother remained in the security of his worn, wooden bed; appearing as though he was caught in the pleasantness of an unworldly dream.  She breathed in the harsh air of the still night; piecing her blackened lungs with its gelidity. When she breathed out, the usual sense of what she knew to be short lived relief passed through her system. She craved for her brother to stand up, walk and be normal again, but she knew after over a decade this prayer was in vain.

Fifteen years had passed since she, her mother and brother collided with the DAF tractor. Her mother’s skull was crushed and her brother was left irreversibly damaged. He lost the use of his legs along with most of his sanity. She escaped astonishingly unscathed. With no one else, she spent the next fifteen years of her life caring for her brother, whose dependency mirrored that of an infant. 

She passed down the abandoned stairs; listening to the audible creak as she stepped, making her way down to her large, unkempt garden. When the sound of continuous stomping had ceased, she gazed upon the sight of her once loved yard. Though it had never been capsized in a vast sea of flowers or held the sound of new born sparrows, she had always found sanctuary here. The years of keeping a constant eye on her brother had left the garden’s appearance neglected, like her own. The dry, over-grown grass circulated the central, ominous oak tree. Its trunk looked sickly and its foliage rustled in the slight breeze as dying leaves fell listlessly from its branches.  A room sized, rusting tin shed stood in the far right hand corner of the garden, barely standing upright.

Placing her hands on her hips, she stood directly in front of the forest-like yard. She reminisced on the summers when she peddled her push bike around the large perimeter of the yard, circling closer and closer to the circumference of the strong oak. The grass had been precisely cropped and the sun illuminated its rich dark green pigment. The pleasant smell of the summer breeze would fly past her as she would ride for hours, dreading the sound of her sound of her mother’s call for dinner. As she’d walked up the steep, wooden stairs a smooth sensation was left on her face from cutting through the wind.    

Crickets within the long reeds of grass repeatedly chorused the same annoying tune, forcing her to return to the present. Though none of that exists now, she reminded herself. Her once mahogany, braided hair was now left parched and unkempt. Her face that was once left smooth from the wind’s caress had been disregarded and was now rough. She had not cycled for years and naivety of adolescence had passed her long ago. She knew her brother was not intentionally being a burden, but through the past years his reliance on her had ignited resentfulness within her. ‘Why am I always second?’ ‘What happened to me?’ These childish, rhetorical questions had been sounding in her head for the last decade.    

The sun had been engulfed by the land, leaving the surroundings in almost complete darkness. From the corner of her eye, a thin ray of light was visible from her neighbour’s home. She battled her way through the long reeds of grass, making a swift swishing sound as she made her way over to the fence. Taking deep breaths while striding through the grass, the scent of freshly mown grass hit her nostrils. Climbing above she peered over the fence, she faced an almost mirror image of her childhood sanctuary. Her gaze remained on the scene for a long time. Discounting the absence of the weather worn shed, her neighbour’s yard was almost identical to the one in which she resided, same shorn grass, same noble looking oak. She could almost see her sixteen year old self tracing the circumference of the oak tree and feel the cool wind on her once smooth face.  After what had seemed like an eternity she stepped down from the fence, she thought to herself, wryly laughing; ’The grass is greener on the other side.’

Thoughts of heading back upstairs entered her mind when she asked herself ‘What’s the point?’ She had no career, no one who would care if she refused to leave the captivity of her room. She often questioned whether her mother got the better deal. She sat down in the mists of sorrow, uprooting strands of grass lazily. Her trivial amusement ceased at the sound of a bird rustling among the midst of the sinister looking oak. The small pigeon ruffled its grey wings and hopped along the withered branches. With a series of staccato chirps, the bird thrashed its wings in a continuous rhythm and escaped the eerie prison of the domineering tree.

 This small act instigated a seed of motivation from within. She acknowledged the oak was dying, but there was still life, she thought within that once noble tree there is life. It was as though a hand had swiftly swiped away all uncertainty and ambiguity in her mind. She could no longer rot and wait for death to cast its timely hand; she had to escape her decaying shell, she would no longer suffer her mark from the accident.

From the very depths of her memory, she recalled the whereabouts of her beloved push bike. Breaking through the dented door she resurrected her old bike. Though the red and white paint had peeled in some areas, the wheels rolled along the ground with the same smoothness it had fifteen years previously. The bell still rang that familiar tune as she wheeled it out. Passing the forest of the grass she noted to herself, donning a small smile, I’ll get to that later. Reaching the front of her house she pulled her hair into that memorable braid and mounted the bike; peddling as hard and fast as she could.

Keep going,
Peddle.
Move.
Faster.  

The four phrases chorused through her mind as she sped down the long narrow street. Her legs moved in a continuous rhythm, as she cycled the adrenalin rush coursed through her body and the smell of the summer air began to fill her nostrils. The sound of wind gushed past her ears as the morning sun ignited the light ravenous street; she felt no older than the naïve sixteen year old riding around her garden.