We were in the car. Dad was driving. My brother Josh, like usual, was blabbering on about some football game he had watched. Bonnie was listening to music, probably the Black Eyed Peas – she was obsessed with them. Mum and I were chatting about the leaving cert exams I would be sitting next year. It was a sunny summers day and we were on our way home from the beach. “Why don’t we stop for ice-cream?” Dad said, turning around to face us. It was in that split second that everything changed. The deer ran into the middle of the road and stopped! It just stood there. Dad swerved and tried to avoid it causing the car to go out of control. Bonnie screamed. “Hold on!” Dad shouted! Then there was the sound of breaking glass and everything went black…..

I sat at the kitchen table watching Josh reading. He had broken his leg in the accident and couldn’t play sports, but when his leg healed, he never went back. The accident had changed him and his once happy, confident, chatty self changed to a quiet, self-conscious boy who hid behind books. Most of his friends had deserted him and those who were left, he barely spoke to anymore. He became very much a loner and books and video games became his friends. Often in school, I saw him sitting by himself at lunch, reading, looking so sad and lonely. It pained me to see him like this knowing I could do nothing to help him.

Bonnie was different. After the accident, she depended on her friends more and if anything, seemed to make a lot more friends. She hated being on her own and surrounded herself with as many people as she could. But there were those times when she had no-one to distract her and all the memories came flooding back. The scar from her kidney transplant was a constant reminder of that terrible accident. Since her near death experience, Bonnie had changed a lot. She lived more on the wild side, taking risks, trying extreme sports like cliff diving and hanging out with the wrong group of people, but Mum and Dad didn’t notice. They were too busy with problems of their own. It looked like they were going to get divorced. The accident had changed them and ever since, all they did was fight and argue. Mum blamed Dad for what had happened and would never let him forget it. Dad became very depressed and started drinking. A lot.

It was January now and we were just back at school after the Christmas holidays. It was tough for everyone over Christmas. On St Stephens day, Dad could not take it anymore and left Mum. He moved in with his sister, Claire. She was very like Dad in looks.  They both had dark brown hair and grey eyes. Claire was single and was glad of the company. Dad phoned home most evenings and visited every other day. But his moving out  still had a huge impact on the rest of the family. Josh became more reserved and kept to himself even more than before. Bonnie just became more reckless and started doing dangerous things. It was hard for me to watch this. I went to school like usual and tried to act normal, but it was no use. In school the teachers would ask questions in class and I would put my hand up to answer, but they never called on me for the answer. Nobody noticed me at home or at school, no matter how hard I tried to get their attention. It was frustrating.

By now it was April, and things were not getting any better at home. On the twelfth of April, at around  twelve am, Mum got a phone call. It was the police. Bonnie had been in an accident. She and her friends had been drinking and had ended up in a car crash. When I saw her, I was shocked! She lay there in intensive care. Her blonde hair made her look ghostly pale and you could see the faint outlines of the bruises starting to appear. Her eyes were shut and she looked like she was sleeping, except for all the tubes and wires from the hospital machines. The other people in the car were okay, but she had not been wearing a seat belt and had ended up smashing through the front window, fracturing her skull, and breaking her left leg and left arm. Mum and Dad rushed to the hospital to be with her. Soon after, the doctor came in. He told Mum and Dad that there was a fifty-fifty chance that Bonnie could die and to be prepared for the worst. My mother broke down. Dad blamed himself again. If he had been paying more attention to Bonnie, this may not have happened. This time though mum disagreed and told him it was not his fault and that he could not have predicted this. They spent weeks at Bonnie’s hospital bed, waiting for her to wake up from her coma. I wondered if she would ever wake up?          

Before we knew it, it was Summer. Bonnie was home from hospital, but still had to take it easy and be careful. She had made it through her ordeal. After twenty-three days, she woke from her coma. She still had a long way to go, but after a lot of physiotherapy and rehabilitation, she was able to come home. Mum and Dad had managed to talk through their problems and grow closer and come together when Bonnie needed them. To Josh’s delight, Dad had moved back in and my parents decided it was best if they moved to a new home to start afresh. The big move was in a weeks time. As the moving day came nearer, I watched the removal guys pack up my room, all my belongings, in boxes. Some boxes some went to charity shops and friends, and the few boxes left went to the new house, where they were put into the spare room. It was summer and my family were moving to a new house. A fresh start for everyone. Everyone in my class seemed to be moving as well, most to college and some, to work. I felt I was moving too. Away from my family and friends and probably making the longest journey of them all. If it wasn’t for that deer…..

I was seventeen when I died. My father was driving when the deer ran into the middle of the road. The doctors later told my parents that I had died instantly when the car hit the wall. Looking at me now, I looked the same as I did before I died, except for a couple of bruises on my head and that scar on my side from the kidney transplant operation. When the car crashed, my brother got his leg crushed by the car door, but it was just a broken leg and a couple of bruises. My sister was thrown from the car and ended up puncturing her kidney and breaking her arm. Mum and Dad were ok. They escaped with minor cuts and bruises. But me? I was killed instantly when I was thrown back from the force of the collision and broke my neck. My body was taken to the hospital where surgeons managed to do an emergency kidney transplant operation. It saved Bonnie’s life.

I stayed with my family for months, watching over them, trying to comfort them and make contact and trying to continue on with life, sometimes forgetting I had died.  But I realise now that they could not move on until I did. It was time for me to make the long journey to my new home.

Heaven….

I should have been obedient.

The walls are closing in. Tighter. Smaller. The claustrophobia chokes me, blinding me from reason. Maybe the punishment isn’t the imprisoning – maybe the real punishment is psychological. I can easily see how people become crazy when I’m trapped in here, with no distractions or any presence – human or otherwise. Though mice wouldn’t surprise me.

I eye my oppressive surroundings. Typical grey walls of depressing institution, tattered furniture kept to the minimum, condensation running down the walls despite the freezing temperature. A clock ticks nearby. It is taunting me; the rhythmic tick-tock, tick-tock going notoriously slow. Desperately hoping for distraction, I strain my ears in an attempt to hear the outside world; how I wish to join it. But for years gone by and years to come, this is and shall be the world I know. A strict world of uniformed equality, a vicious society where personalities are suppressed so that all are robotically similar, dutifully doing the tasks we are assigned. Beyond the grimy windows of this place lies real life, I think wistfully. Faint echoes of chirping birds and giddy laughter reach my grateful self. I welcome the sounds, a symbol of hope from beyond the confines of the dull, peeling walls.

I try to conjure up something to relieve my boredom. It would be so easy to just lose your mind in here, withdrawn from normal society. The clock continues to tick by in an unnervingly slow fashion. I don’t trust it really, and it is impossible to measure how long I’ve truly been here as it seems an eternity, one moment just blending into another. At one point, the faded door creaks open and I jump at the unexpected sound. It’s just one of them, the people in authority, who have come to check I’ve caused no more hassle. They glance at me disdainfully. The snooty, controlling air about them immediately makes me want to threaten their authority, a natural response. I’m so sick of being treated like I’m beneath them. But I keep my anger in check; not obeying authority is why I’m here.

Yet they relish it, the control. Watching our every move, safe and satisfied in the knowledge that we have little option but to do as they order. They close the door again, and I’m imprisoned once more. The silence is agony.

Pure, utter desolation.

I think up escape plans in another attempt to ease my unsettled mind, but it is pointless. I know that I could escape if I wanted to, if I tried. It’s not that I don’t want to – good God, my release can’t come quickly enough – but I would only be caught again. The punishment would be severe … there’s no way I could possibly risk such a painful, torturous fate.

I stare at the small pile of stationery at my side, and eventually pick up a tattered book with a sigh. I briefly flick through the pages to a page with the ear marked down. I read over sentences that are already implanted into my brain. I could read chapter 7 word for word by now without so much as a glance at the pages. I turn each page slowly, however, reading each and every word, but I’m a fast reader and when the chapter ends I leave down the book again. I reach for a writing pad instead, doodling on a page with a leaky black biro.

As the irritating clock rhythmically continues to break the silence I comfort myself with thoughts of freedom. Just the word is intoxicating, as with each passing second my release approaches. The page before me is filled with pictures of flowers and cartoon people – not quite Picasso, but close enough for me. I continue to draw random images on the sheet though, as my heavy eyelids alert me that I’m dangerously close to falling asleep. I yawn loudly.

And so the eternity passes, and as it continues my pessimism fades slightly. I know that at some point I will leave, having learnt from my mistakes, being wiser for it. I will be released, and go home where I can relax in comfort. Aah. I become quite wrapped up in my doodling, and nearly have a heart attack when the door opens again. When I jerk my head up in response I see it’s the same one as before, just checking on the troublemaker, and I return to my notepad. My poor heart flutters dangerously when they tell me I can go now. I think “thank God!” and say a quick prayer in my flustered head. I grab the book and stationery, nearly sprinting out the door and into the world.

I survived! I won’t be so foolish again, I think. How silly I had been, how such a minor thing caused me to suffer such a frightening experience. I’ll be on time for class in future.

I thought again of the punishment as I left the school grounds. Detention was, indeed, a very frightening experience.

The story as everybody knows it is; Jack and Jill went up a hill to fetch a pail of water Jack fell down and broke his crown and Jill came tumbling after. But the question is how did they fall? Was it their fault? Why were they alone? Did they have permission to be there? And the most important question of all, what are the long term effects of this event?

On Saturday the second of April two thousand and eleven their court case was held. The trial had been due to start at twelve o’clock and reporters had camped out the night before. By the time half eleven came most reporters looked bedraggled and exhausted whilst most of their clothes had a faint smell about them and the men were stubbly from not being able to shave.

Castlebar was buzzing with excitement. Shops were selling t-shirts to commemorate the event and restaurants and cafes were filled up with hungry people come to town for the trial. Parts of town were so busy that roads had to be cordoned off.

At ten to twelve a siren went off and all the people waiting outside the courthouse rushed towards the road. Jack and Jill were on their way. In exactly five minutes the first car arrived with a Garda escort. Jacks parents, Michael and Patricia Evans got out of the black Mercedes Benz and headed up the grey, stone steps to the large wooden doors of Castlebar Courthouse. As soon as Jack stepped out of his car he was swarmed by reporters, cameras flashed everywhere blinding him, people shouted questions and he had people fought to get their microphones near his face.

When the doors closed behind them Jack breathed a sigh of relief and took in the vast, marble and granite front room. A tall man with dark hair, wearing a suit shook Jack’s hand and directed the family to a long, soft, red couch and told them that they had to wait there until Jill arrived. He smiled, turned and then darted away on another task.

Jill Moran and her parents Brendan and Sinead pulled up in a silver BMW and also had to battle their way through journalists. They practically fell through the doors, panting and out of breath. Jill saw Jack and both of them narrowed their eyes at each other. The Moran’s were greeted by the man in the suit whose name was Jeff and were then seated in the courtroom. Once Jeff had set a few things straight, the jury, public and solicitors were allowed in and within the space of five minutes the room was overflowing with people. The noise levels were very high and both Jack and Jill looked nervous and terrified of the situation unfolding around them.

The noise soon ceased however and a tall woman wearing a judge’s wig and long black robe entered the room and sauntered up to her seat overlooking the room and witness box. She sat down in her wooden seat and glanced at the papers on the oak table in front of her. She proceeded to clear her throat and said in a loud clear voice.

“We are here today to uncover the truth about Jack and Jill who both sustained injuries from a fall in a field that Mr J.Rhattigan owns. There have been questions left unanswered whether compensation is to be paid to either or both of you as Jill broke an arm and leg and Jack suffered concussion and several cracked ribs. First both of you need to take the oath that you will tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Please stand.” Jack and Jill both stood behind their tables and repeated everything the judge said, then Jack was called to the witness box. He straightened up, brushed down his black pants and tugged on his black suit jacket that he wore over his charcoal shirt. While he walked past Jill’s desk he pushed his brown fringe out of his hazel eyes with his sallow hand and looked down at her. She glared back. His black shoes tip-tapped on the floor as he went up the steps to the witness box.

“My name is Jack Evans and I’m fifteen,” he started, “Two years ago on the twelfth of March two thousand and nine the entire water supply for Mayo Abbey had been cut off.  We needed water as our water tank was empty, as was my neighbours the Moran’s. Both mine and Jill’s parents sent us to a nearby well with a large container that we could carry between us. So first we went to Mr. Rhattigan’s house to ask could we please use his well. He said yes so we headed off to the field. Jill and I pulled the container all the way up the hill and at 14:37 exactly we reached the well at the top. Jill texted one of her friends the whole time I pulled buckets up and filled the contain-”

“That’s crap Jack you little ass-”

“Jill!” the judge roared.

“Sit down please” she continued in a quieter voice. Jill shot Jack the dirtiest look, crossed her arms and sat down.

“As I was saying, Jill was being very unfair and when I tried to question her on the matter she hissed at me to work faster and said I was to carry all the water home myself. I admit I did lose it and shout at her quite loudly, she shouted back, pushed me and I fell backwards over the container. I was reaching for something to hold on to and I must have caught her arm. I’m sorry to say that because of my concussion I can’t remember anything after that.”

Jill’s solicitor Maura then stood up. She had a pant suit on, her hair was back in a bun and she looked VERY serious.

“Jack?” she began. “I’m assuming there was water in this container, yes?”

“Yes, but it fell over.”

“I know, but if it fell over quite a lot of water would have gone down the hill and everybody I have been in contact with has said there was no water. What about that Jack?”

“It was a dry day” he mumbled and looked furiously at the floor.

“That’s what you can tell yourself Jack but Jill’s story will seem much more truthful than yours because she knows that neither of you brought a single bucket up before your fall.”

Jack was told to go back to his seat and Jill was called to the witness box. She floated past Jack in her pale pink chiffon skirt with her baby blue sweater and her black hair in a fish tail plait.

“My name is Jill Moran and I’m also fifteen. Our stories are the same until we reached the well. When we got to the top I pulled out my phone and said it was 14:37 exactly and then out of nowhere he takes my phone and gives me a lecture about not pulling my weight. He was about to put my phone in his pocket. When I tried to get it back but he fell over and grabbed me to make sure I fell too. When I was at the bottom of the hill I was right beside Jack. I tried to stand up but I couldn’t take the pain. I tried to move my left arm that was unbearable, so I reached over to take my phone out of Jack’s hand with my right arm. I could see he was unconscious so I called an ambulance and our parents. And the rest everybody knows.”

Jacks solicitor didn’t stand up as it was clear Jill had too much concrete evidence against them. So Jill returned to her seat.

The jury then asked that everybody go outside for five minutes to discuss the new information. It was a beautiful day outside so most people were happy to leave. Jack and Jill were the only ones in the front room so Jack decided to break the silence.

“I’m sorry about the lying”

“Jack you’re only sorry you got caught” Jill stated and stalked outside.

When everybody returned the jury wanted to see the land owner. He had died in two thousand and ten; however his son, who had inherited the land, was at the trial.

“I’m John Rhattigan and even though ye asked me father could ye go up that hill doesn’t mean I’m goin’ to pay fer yer stupid mistakes. I won’t pay fer nothin’ but it just so happens that me father gave me this” he pulled an off-white envelope out of his breast pocket “before he died. He told me it was fer Jack and Jill. Just let me remind ye that whatever is in there is all yer gettin”  He handed the envelope to the judge and she opened it. The entire crowd leaned forward in anticipation and it was like every sound had been sucked from the room.

The judge read the letter and raised her eyebrows.

“It appears that Mr J.Rhattigan left a four thousand euro cheque to Jack and Jill, which if I’m correct is enough money to cover the insurance claims. He also wrote you a letter.”

Jack and Jill read it. They both looked up and smiled at each other. They were sorry. Granted it took two years, but they were sorry. I think it was the letter that made them realise their stupidity. It said

I suppose I should start with who I am. I was born near London on a stately stud farm, sired by Wersaw out of Fallowed Nights, both strong Thoroughbred horses. I never met my father, but my mother told me that he had been a great horse in the British Army. His legacy was to be continued by me, although I did not yet know this. I was just a young colt with a glossy, liver chestnut coat and rich, dark eyes. My innocence ended when I was just two. I was taken from my home and transported with many others to the British Cavalry Barracks, an enormous place with many schools and hundreds of stables. I was put in stall 56, between a young grey who neighed all night, and a bad tempered bay, who tried to bite me through the intersecting rails. It was a frightening night, but I was excited. I knew where I was and looked forward to discovering more about my new life.

The barracks became my home and life, and for several years I trained for and mastered all sorts of challenges. By now I was a handsome 16hh gelding by the name of Drummer Boy, though many of the men referred to me as Calm Wersaw-apparently, my father had been a highly-strung version of me! But, in 1914, my life changed forever when I truly began to walk in my father’s footsteps during World War One.

The first we knew of the War were the frenzied activity of the stables hands, cleaning out disused stables, and bellowing orders from the sergeants to spring clean the human living quarters. Over the next month, hundreds of young men, newly signed up to the army, flooded onto the site and extra horses from all over the country were seen rearing in the schools. Thus began the training for war.

Though we had been taught to ride on while our soldiers took aim, and not flinch when bullets flew past our ears, the technology we experienced now was more terrifying than you could ever imagine. Hand-held explosives were flung through the air to blast the ground beneath us to smithereens, and the constant clatter of machine gun fire made our heads ache. If they ever made it to the arena, the tanks scared us witless, clanking and groaning like monstrous beasts. By far the worst were things we referred to as High Howlers (the men called them shells), flung from behind the soldiers, high into the air. When they landed they made craters the size of two horses, destroying everything in one foul blast.

The men, too, were alien-no more careful soldiers for us. In all fairness, they tried their hardest to recall all the information, but it takes years to remember, learn and conquer all the techniques needed-they only had mere months. Many times I had to be ridden with reins around my knees and the wrong saddle pinching my back. It was not unknown either to have your saddle taken off and be left without water, rug or clean coat, just abandoned. You were lucky to get a rider who had sat on a donkey at a fair, let alone someone with any knowledge, and that was when people had time to tack up and groom. That luxury wasn’t there on the battlefield, something that I would soon find out.

We were shipped to France in huge, foul-smelling boats that screamed and tossed in the waves. Many of the young horses never made it there. This was my first image of death, but sadly, it was not my last. When we arrived we were confronted by strange sights and smells, but my training to ‘just keep going’ helped me, especially over the coming days which were spent journeying to our destination-our first battle. We didn’t really understand who or what we were meant to be fighting, but there was a definite sense of excitement and even impatience to get there. After all, I, for one, had been training all of my life for this.

I don’t remember much of what happened next, all I know is the sudden flurry and yelling heralded one of the worst moments of my life. Our scouts had come with the news that a battle to our west had gone drastically downhill and emergency assistance was needed. Next moment, we were saddled for war and cantering blindly towards a far away roar. The foot soldiers in our group were following but as we were faster, the cavalry was sent on ahead. About 200 strong, we charged straight into the enemy flanks and in less than three seconds we went down. I stared in horror as my fellows fell to the power of the enemy guns, as my rider screamed at me to move on. He aimed his rifle at a man and fired, but I couldn’t watch. I stumbled blindly into the fray, watching through wide eyes as lives were snuffed out like candles. It was over soon, our side took the advantage and the enemy retreated. The men began to celebrate their win but we, the horses, just stood staring at that which we had spent all our lives preparing for. ‘What have I done?’ was all I could think.

There was no point thinking, as I knew this was what life was going to be like from now on, whether I liked it or not. I allowed myself to be led to an open area where all the horses were picketed, and we ate in subdued silence. We found out later that the men intended to stay here for what sounded like a long time.

When I say the enemy retreated, I don’t mean they ran away never to be seen again. Oh no, in the First World War there was something called the trench system which the men fought from. Basically, we had many ditches and trenches on our side which the men fired from, an area of land in the middle known as No Man’s Land and then, the enemy had the same sort of trenches on the other side. It was all about gaining land, so the army had to run across No Man’s Land to get to the enemy trenches. When they got there, if there were enough of them, they would take over the trench and the enemy would have to fall back to their second trenches. It wasn’t that easy to get across though, with machine guns rattling and High Howlers dropping on you, but it still seemed very important to the men to get there, no matter how many were lost in the attempt. The other horses and I couldn’t understand it at all.

My second battle was as bad as the first. We were sent out with a wave of foot soldiers to try and cross No Man’s Land. We charged across the wasteland, having been driven into a frenzy by the sergeants. I remember galloping out beside my friends and watching as the enemy did the same, and their machine guns started to fire. It was a horrific affair, with High Howlers exploding and people screaming. The man on my back suddenly gasped and I felt him fall. Spinning around, I saw him crumpled in death upon the grassless ground. My fellows charged away as the battle swung to the east, but I could not leave. I had been trained to stay by my rider’s side, but in that wasteland alone, with High Howlers dropping like rain, my nerves broke. Horses don’t stay and fight, they take flight, though as I pranced and foamed at the mouth, I knew there was nowhere to run to. Then I spotted a man coming towards me. He was running, waving his arms and shouting. Behind him I saw his horse on the ground. “Get ‘ere,” the man shouted, grabbing my reins. I snorted, rearing away. The man looked angry. “No”, I screamed. “Get back, get away from me!” I pawed the ground, flattening my ears, but for all the good it did, I might as well have laid down for him to mount. I wasn’t strong enough to stop him, my nature forbade and he knew it. Therefore, I was forced again into battle.

We lost so many lives that day. I remember limping back to the field where we slept. I had been hit in the shoulder by a shard of metal blasted from a High Howler, only to find less than half of our number huddled up, shivering. I went over to my friend, Shaman’s Call, a tough little Arabian horse, who was quaking in her shoes. “I thought you were dead,” she said, touching her nose to mine. “Not yet,” I replied, as cheerfully as I could manage, though she heard the pain in my voice. She whispered quietly to me, grooming my back as I groomed hers. Another friend, Justique, a French horse, said: “They won’t let you ride for a while with that wound, you’re lucky”. He was right, I did miss the next few battles, but that only made it worse when they came back, every time with a few more lost. The men were given kind words and comfort for their misery, but we received nothing. They didn’t care for our sanity. No-one thought of us when we saw a man blown to pieces. No-one remembered that we had eaten opposite the dead horse which they were now dragging past us. No-one remembered to console us about the horse that we had groomed an hour before. No-one thought of the comradeship formed between two horses that had stood side by side, swishing flies off each others faces with their tail. No. Not a word.

Only one man ever mentioned it to me, and that was more for his benefit than mine. “No worries mate,” he said, trembling as he yanked on my bridle. “If yer die ‘ere, yer go to nice pastures of sweet grass. And I’ll go to heaven, I will.” He grinned lopsidedly at me, pulling a tatty little book from his jerkin pocket. “God will save us,” he said. “Or we’ll go to a better place”. ‘Wouldn’t be hard,’ I thought as he wrenched up my girth. ‘Just need to knock some sense into the humans so we can get away from here’. But I did feel ashamed of this when I heard a Sergeant say ‘Bible Boy’ had been shot down. I hope he went where he wanted to go.

As I stood with Justique after yet another fight, mourning the loss of my beautiful Shaman’s Call who had gone down so bravely, I felt a flare of anger towards the humans. I could not understand them. Why were they so eager to destroy one another? There was no sense in their killing. We understand that some animals have to hunt to eat, but never just for…for what?

Maybe there was a reason, but I never found it. We used to call to the enemy horses from across the wasteland man had created. They were the same as us, and their owners did the same things. There was nothing different about them, except that they were on the other side, though what defined this we were never told. Thinking back, we were never told anything, yet we were expected to carry on at all costs. Perhaps they thought we were just stupid animals, but you know better, don’t you?

It is a lot more tricky than it seems, trying to defeat Bono. For instance, first we need a way to get to his table without falling off a cliff or losing anyone along the way. My dear friend, Pamela the Pencil, told me that Reggie the Ruler and his friends are volunteering to lie down over the cliff so my army can walk across. We need someone as lanky as him-thirty centimetre rulers are perfect for the job!

Bono has a big advantage in this war. He has an army of twice as many troops as us, including high-lighters and Tipp-Ex. TIPP-EX! Why a primary school child would need Tipp-Ex I don’t know. On our side we only have erasers and sharpeners as a bonus. They’re nothing as strong as high-lighters or Tipp-Ex. Erasers are OK, they’re not completely useless. They make great cannon balls! Only problem with that famous idea is, we have no way of getting them back once we fling them over. I’m hoping to get someone on the inside to help me with that.

The heavy thumping hammered against my brain continuously as I regained consciousness for the second time. Nothing came into focus for about thirty seconds. I heard the shuffling feet of the busy shoppers drifting by. I felt a ‘clink’ beside me and noticed a growing pile of coins which lay by my right leg. As much as I wanted to cry,a small giggle burst through my lips in this mad moment in time. I realized that I couldn’t lie there forever so I tried to scream for help, but a tiny frantic whisper was all that escaped my cracked lips. A few passers-by shot concerned glances my way but didn’t stop. Couldn’t they see that I was only a thirteen-year-old girl who was NOT homeless? My brain still couldn’t register why I was lying limply on the street. After a couple of insecure minutes, my breathing steadied a fraction and my limbs eased a bit. I managed with great difficulty to pull myself up into a standing position with the brick wall behind me for support.

“Please,” I gasped to a short, middle-aged woman. Clearly thinking I was a druggie, she quickened her pace as a look of pure guilt and worry flashed across her pale, rounded face. I gave the most agonized expression to anyone who bothered to look in my direction. A young man with dark,brown eyes and a pointed face gave me a mysterious grin. I tilted my head in complete confusion as I strangely recognized his face, but didn’t know where from. But suddenly…I saw his black,knitted hat and that black turtleneck…

“NO!”I shrieked, startling myself and the people passing. The memories flooded back, so fast I was overwhelmed and my knees buckled,sending me to the ground once again.

 “No! P-P-P-Please!” I had stammered. It had done no good.

“Aww,come on. You’re a grown up. Just sniff a tiny bit,” he murmured chuckling darkly, cornering me into the back of the alleyway. I thought it wouldn’t be too harmful. If he just wanted me to take one sniff maybe then I could continue to the shop to fetch the newspaper for Dad. I took one deep, shaky break and sniffed in delicately. I’d felt as if I had hit a train coming at full force as I slumped backwards completely stunned, collapsing into darkness. And that’s when I’d woken up. My fists rose up in front of me as I somehow clambered up, racing in the direction that man had walked.

“You monster!” I screeched, although my throat burned ferociously, as if two rusted bars were scraping together vigorously. He was long gone, so I had no chance of catching him. I whirled around desperately and grabbed an innocent, pale faced man with glasses by the shoulders.

“Where AM I?” I panted, exasperated. It was then I saw my reflection in his square-shaped specks. A wild,matted haired girl with extraordinary large,bloodshot eyes with small black pupils stared back at me. I realized then I was a threat to this startled man and loosened my tight grip. I had gathered a crowd of curious spectators by then, before they cleared quite abruptly as two Gardai in uniform marched up, arms outstretched, ready to clasp me.

“No! Please!”I cried, ”I’m innocent!” The only thing I seemed to be doing was pleading.

“Relax,we’re here to help you Rachel,” the slightly broader one soothed. I began to panic again wondering if they were there in disguise and had a lethal syringe hiding in the patrol car they took me to. And HOW did they know my name?

“Now, we’ll take you to your parents pet. Ok?”he muttered patting me awkwardly on the back as I rocked back and forth terrorized.

As we progressed, I slowly began to feel safe again, away from all that excruciating pain and agony. We pulled up at the local station where I saw my beloved parents. I shot out of the car as it came to a halt and lunged torwards them. I wasn’t expecting ever to see them again that one moment I was cornered by that horrid druggie… I shuddered the memory away as my mother squeezed me warmly, too happy for words. Silent tears dripped down our faces as they lured me into the awaiting ambulance and onto the hard, barred bed. I still clung on dearly to both my parents, drowsily drifting off to sleep for the final time in this moment of relief and utter perfection.

We’re the rebel group who aren’t afraid to live life to the full and deal with the consequences later, but even I had to admit things got way too out of control this time. No, this time was dangerous, this time was petrifying. At home I’m the rebel daughter, being constantly compared to my perfect younger sister, Rachel, who gets straight As and goes to her special little expensive school for over-achieving girls who have no life. My parents favour her in every way possible and prefer to dwell on her achievements rather than my misbehaviour, their favourite line being “why can’t you be more like your sister?” My parents don’t particularly approve of my friends either, they believe they’re a bad influence on me, not that they can stop me from hanging out with them anyway.
As the weeks roll on in this pathetic excuse for a school we start to become bored and mischievous. I’ve tried drinking before but not heavily but this year was the time to change that, going out almost every weekend to drink with my friends. Stealing the alcohol from our parents and from wherever we can find it. Nicole has seemed rather distracted and withdrawn lately but is always up for getting drunk, sometimes too much so, I wonder if there’s anything going on with her? She’s started smoking and is acting so weird, throwing herself at any guy and drinking at every opportunity. Yes, there’s definitely something up. I’ve never tried smoking myself but the smell of it makes me nauseous so I don’t think my mother will have to worry about that too much.

In school I persuaded the others to leave me and Nicole to talk so I can figure out what’s wrong. She told me that her parents are getting divorced and that it’s been really harsh as she’s an only child. I had no idea but at least this explains her recent behaviour. I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone and that she’ll tell them in her own time. At that moment she seemed so venerable and weak, like a five year old girl who lost her favourite teddy. This isn’t right, Nicole’s the strong one, she’s the one who can always keep her cool, I can tell this is really hurting her. If she would just let me in, let someone in. She seems fake, acting the way she feels she must, like it doesn’t bother her in the slightest. But I can tell, I can see her pain, the flickers of hurt and her heartbreak. This is slowly killing her inside and it’s killing me to see her like this. She’s started taking tablets to help her sleep but I don’t think they’re working, she still always looks exhausted. Can anyone else see the pain she’s in or are they just blinded by the false layer of happiness which she portrays?

As if the whole thing with Nicole wasn’t enough, Matt and Emma have started drinking heavily. Being drunk is okay once a week at most but I’m starting to think haven’t they been sober since the night at the pitch, when they were so out of it they couldn’t even walk. It’s gotten to the point that they have even started to bring drink to school, ditch classes and risk getting suspended or even expelled. I’m worried about Nicole and now this has put me on edge. If anything else happens I don’t think I’ll be able to cope. I’ve enough to worry about and my exams and are starting soon. I just hope everything will turn out okay and that Matt and Emma will come to their senses and stop wasting their lives. Nicole is my main priority right now, I have to help her through this.

Just when you think things can’t get any worse and bam your whole wall comes crumbling down. Rachel came home drunk last night, yes Rachel, the perfect child, the good daughter, the favourite. She said she was hanging around with Emma and a couple others and thought she’d try it for herself, she had no intention of getting drunk but she couldn’t help herself. As I put her to bed I suddenly realised how much my life has changed. My perfect sister has turned into someone wild and uncontrollable, she’s turned into me. I have become responsible, I have things to worry about, people to take care of. It’s like we’ve swapped places and I have become the model daughter but of course mum and dad haven’t noticed anything. I’m the one who has to deal with the problems that someone my age shouldn’t have to deal with. I’m still young, I wonder now are teenagers too immature, are teenagers too grown up, are we put under too much pressure to deal with things when we don’t even know how to handle what we’re dealing with, what I’m dealing with.

So I’m sitting here in the hospital, reflecting back on the last six months of my life. How I ended up here, at the bedside of one of my best friends. I don’t know if she’ll make it through the night, and worrying where my sister and my other friends are and whether or not they’ll make it home or not or just end up in a ditch somewhere.

Earlier I went over to Nicole’s house to stay over as the rest of my friends, including my sister, were going to a college house party. I decided to spend the night at Nicole’s instead and keep her company. When I arrived I knocked on her door but I got no answer. I figured she just couldn’t hear me so I used the spare key they kept under the matt outside their front door. I started to get worried when she wasn’t answering my calls so I wandered around the house.

Then I froze.

Frozen to the spot with fear and panic. My lungs weren’t functioning and I couldn’t make a sound. Nicole was lying on her kitchen floor, two empty bottles of vodka by her side with her cradling a near-empty third bottle in her arms. I thought she had passed out from the intake of alcohol but it was then I noticed the empty container on the cabinet of her sleeping pills. She had taken an overdose and was now lying on her kitchen floor unconscious.

The next thing I remember is sitting in the hospital with tears running down my face. My best friend had tried to commit suicide, the rest of my friends were out, probably long past drunk and have no idea what’s happening here. Yes, this was a moment I knew I would remember for the rest of my life. The feeling of isolation, of panic, of fear.

And the worst part is I have to go it alone, deal with all these whirlwind emotions. Will I ever recover from this? Will I ever feel normal again after going through this? Will Nicole survive and will my friends ever mature and take some responsibility?

I’ve changed a lot over the last six months.

I don’t think I can deal with any more ‘change’.

Now I’m sweating and anxious and get a drink out of my bag. A pretty, middle-aged woman sits down beside me. “Are you alright love?” she asks me gently. I just nod back at her but I can still see the worried and curious look in her eyes.

I fall asleep for the next hour dreaming of what my mother might look like and what her and my reaction would be to each other. I want to know why she gave me up because I haven’t come to any reasoning why but I’m afraid I might not like the answer. I’m awakened by terrible turbulance but take no notice as my mind is in a different place. The pilot tells us it’s just windy out. Many don’t take head of him and are worrying and shouting for there children to get back in their seats. The crew are trying to calm everyone down but no one listens.
“You’re not scared are you, love?” says the woman beside me.
“No, these things don’t bother me in the slightest,” I reply.
She seems like a nice woman so I decide to introduce myself to take my mind off all my thoughts.
“I’m Julie, nice to meet you.”
It takes her a good few seconds to introduce herself, “Hi I’m Angela but you can call me Angie” she says chirpily.

She starts telling me about herself.
“I’m from Idaho in the U.S. I’m married to my husband and we own a potato farm in the countryside,” she explains.
“I presumed you were Irish from your accent,” I say.
“I moved over from Ireland when I was twenty, to live with my aunt in North Carolina,” she says. I can see she doesn’t want to talk about her past anymore.
“So tell me about yourself?” she says, trying to to change the subject.
“I’m eighteen years old and am just after doing my leaving cert this summer” I reply.
“So, what brings you to America?” she asks with great curiosity.
“I’m over to look for my birth mother, she put me up for adoption when I was just a few months old.”
“Oh,” she says, with a weird look in her eyes.

I continue to explain to her about what I’m going to do and and where I’m going to look while I’m in the States,  for the the next hour with little interuption from her. We don’t notice at first but the whole plane has gone into comotion, with people rushing to there seats and children crying for their mothers because there is extremely bad turbulance. The whole plane is shaking. I look to Angie on my right and she is nearly crying. “It will be alright, the pilot will tell us what’s  going to happen in a minute,” I say, trying to console her.
“That’s not it” she says. “What is it?” I ask, worried.

Before she can answer the pilot informs the passengers that we will have to make a crash landing in Canada. Everyone goes into panic mode, even I’m feeling sick in my stomach.
“What is your date of birth Julie?” Angie asks me with tears in her eyes.
I feel a bit shocked by her question under the circumstances.
“WHAT IS YOUR DATE OF BIRTH JULIE?” she shouts at me over the sounds of everyone in the plane.
“16th of October 1993,” I answer back, worry and fear in my voice.

Just before I can ask why, it hits me like a bullet , the woman sitting beside me thinks I might be her daughter she gave up nearly eighteen years ago.
“What, you don’t really th- think I could be yo- your daughter ?” I stutter out with shock.
By this point we are both crying. “Yes, I think so,” she says “I had my baby daughter eighteen years on the 16th of October and I called her Juliet.”

We both just sit there in shock as the plane is just minutes away from attempting to land in the middle of nowhere. I take her hand and put it in mine, we both look at each other and smile thinking it might be the last time we see each other. Then the whole plane goes dark and we hit the ground with great force. I can still feel  Angie’s hand in mine as the plane finally grinds to a halt. The pilot calls over the intercom to tell us that we’ve had a successful landing. Me and my mother look at each and cry with happiness.

Now, Kathryn slowly walked up the stairs into Raina’s room. She looked around, broke into tears and flung herself onto Raina’s bed. Tears on the pillow in the bed where Raina once slept. Light poured in the window right onto Kathryn’s face but she didn’t bother to pull the blind. “That you Raina?” Kathryn said, smiling to herself, but nobody answered her. She thought back to last week.

Kathryn screamed, “God Raina if you want to take my things you ask first!!! Every time I look in your room it’s full of my stuff!”

“But it was just a top. Why do you always have to get so worked up about nothing!!” Raina answered back.

“ Well Raina, why do you have to be such a lousy sister?” “I don’t see what you’re so upset about?” “Nothing Raina just go away I don’t want you here I never did so stay away from my things and more importantly STAY THE HELL AWAY FROM ME!

Raina’s eyes flooded with tears but she didn’t let them out or at least not in front of Kathryn. She turned around and ran upstairs.

Thinking about what had happened, Kathryn felt so bad about what she said and wished she could take it all back and felt even worse because now she couldn’t. Kathryn looked around the room, she saw posters of Raina’s favourite bands, she saw the schoolbooks and pens on Raina’s desk, she saw the bag of makeup which Raina loved.

But then something caught her eye, a yellow box on the bookshelf that had Kathryn’s name on it

Kathryn got up, walked over to the box and pulled it out. In small writing it said Kathryn. She open the beautifully decorated box and saw inside it were pictures. She looked through them, once again crying. Pictures of family vacations, Christmases and just days when they had nothing else for doing but taking pictures. Then she pulled a piece of paper out from the bottom of the box. She started to read….

Teardrops trickled down Kathryn’s face onto the letter. She quickly dabbed it off before it could smudge the ink. Kathryn got changed into her nicest clothes and got in the car. It was a silent journey to the church… to see Raina for the last time.