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Somewhere in the depths of a grim
North London Estate a seventeen year old girl sat on a wall staring at the
sky. In her hand she held a looking
glass with a silver gilt pattern on the handle, together with a small book tied
together by a purple ribbon. The girl
was tall for her age, with a medium build and long brunette hair. She wore the most unusual clothing - a long
black skirt with purple blouse, and a ribbon to secure her plait. As she sat on the wall, tapping her feet to a
familiar rhythm, she hummed a tune - staring at the icy moon as her eyes filled
with incipient tears.
Below her feet, a previously grey puddle was beginning to
crystallise with ice, the cold January evening only serving to amplify the
girl’s bitterness. A gang of youths
walked past her, their littered lager bottle breaking the delicately frozen
puddle. They stared at the girl,
laughing and gesturing as they made their way towards the nearest tower
block. The dark haired teenager hummed
the tune she knew so well and began to silently cry, her tears now running down
an already reddened complexion. She held
the diary tightly under her arm as though warning any onlookers it was for her
eyes only.
Stephanie stared at the milky white moon and touched the purple
velvet ribbon tied around her wrist.
Above her the stars shone through the ominous density of rainclouds
creating pinpricks of subtle light. She
shed a tear which rolled down her saddened face to fall onto the looking glass
she held in her hand. Staring at her
reflection she shed another tear; the deep gash on her nose only illuminated
further by the winter moonlight.
Stephanie took the diary from under her arm and laid it on her
lap, the photos on the cover less clear under the watery moon. She opened it and traced the writing with her
finger as though to remember every word.
Held in a sewn pocket in the cover were a number of further faded
photographs; one in particular she took out and held closely to her chest.
She sat and cried as she remembered her parents, finally a smile
appeared as she recalled happy memories of days spent with her family -
occasions now only dim recollections of a past life. She remembered what she had been told at the
children’s home, when she had asked about her Mummy and Daddy. She remembered how Matron once took her into
a tiny room and told her every intricate detail, her stern manner only serving
to intensify the child’s loss. She tried
to remember spending time with her parents, but never could, these photos her
only companion and only reminder of her family.
Stephanie peered down at the looking glass and saw a dark cloud
moving across the moon, obliterating its milky hue. A shiver ran down her immature spine and she
softly whispered ‘Storm’ under her breath.
Staring at the clouds, she repeated the word over and over, becoming
aware of its every intricacy. Her mind
started to race as she joined the word with her surname, repeating it over and
over as though she was attempting to carve a memory.
Her scrapbook was almost full, but she knew the last page needed
to be written. Stephanie took out a pen
and wrote ‘January 31st 2013’ in
the same curly handwriting, taking care to draw her trademark heart at the end.
I am now
eighteen and it has been six years since I last wrote in this scrapbook. I am still living with the same people – Ella
now has a boyfriend and she has calmed down quite considerably. I am starting university in seven months time
and hopefully will be going to Brighton.
I’m not too bothered about leaving school as I don’t really have any
good friends and Ellesmead has never been a place where I have felt at
home. Last year I decided that I wanted
to become a historian and I am determined to achieve my dream. I have also written many short stories and
poems, although I know I would definitely like to work in history. My life has changed recently and I am happy
to have left my childhood behind. One
day I hope I will meet someone who will become a lifelong friend, somebody with
whom I will share my greatest secrets.
For now I just have to look to the future and achieve high marks in my
A-Levels. One day I will write a
scrapbook just like this one, but it will be a wonderful, happy storybook. I would like to end it ‘happily ever after’
and share it with my best friend. One
day I will do just that...........one day.
Storme Donoghue
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