by Isla, St Peter’s 8-13
Dear diary,
You do not know me yet, but my name is Annabelle-Olivia. I found you hidden away in the back of some boxes in the attic with a few bent pages but you will do simply fine for your purpose.
At this precise moment, I am sitting on my bed, listening to Mother’s pitiful crying in the next room. You see, just a few days ago, something quite awful happened at Elysium Hall, my grandparents’ rather large house. My poor Uncle Sidney was horribly killed during a rather frightening game of Murder in the Dark. I can still picture his limp body draped across the table in the kitchen, a dusty blanket covering him as a sign of “respect,” Grandfather said. I think it seems quite cruel to cover somebody up so that they can no longer see anything other than darkness, even if they are already dead. Fiona agrees with me. Fiona is my cousin by the way and she lives at Elysium Hall with my Grandparents and her mother.
Apparently, Uncle Sidney was killed by some thieves who came to steal some papers or something else from Grandfather’s study, but I am not so sure. Especially after yesterday. Sorry, I just had to pause for a minute. The horrors of yesterday are still very fresh, and Mother’s crying just makes it even more horrible and real.
We were eating dinner with whatever rations the housekeeper Ruth had been able to find, when there was a slight tapping by the window. Grandfather bravely walked over and pulled the blackout curtains up. Oh diary, there was a face staring at us through the glass! It was so horribly pale and scary that I screamed quite terribly and jumped up from the table in fear. Grandmother was not too pleased with me as she says children should be “seen and not heard,” but you really cannot blame me for how frightened I was. Grandfather, Uncle Neil, Ruth and Father all ran out to chase whoever had been at the window but, when we all came out, whoever it was had managed to run away.
Oh, but that is far from the worst, diary. Father and Grandfather were lying face-down on the grass with blood soaking their clothes. Father died there, diary, and I saw his still, lifeless body. Mother hasn’t stopped crying since that night, but I was too in shock to even let slip a tear. I can still see him, dead, in my sleep, and I too end up in floods of tears halfway through the night.
Mother and I left today, we did not want to stay in that horrible house for a moment longer when all I could think about was how much danger we all might be in. Mother had wanted to return to Coventry for days, but Father had always told her no for some strange reason. Maybe, if he had agreed, he would still be alive. Then we could still be one small, happy family. All I can think of now is how much I despise whoever dared to kill Father when he has never done anything wrong his entire life. I am not sure my life could get much worse after these past few days.
Oh diary, how wrong I was. If yesterday was dreadful, tonight has about topped that. I can hardly breathe for fear of telling somebody where I am hidden, this bush might be quite good at hiding me, but one noise and I know I will be found.
It is night right now, around 1am, but you would not know it from how lit up the streets and sky are. If I was not sat in the midst of it all, I might say it was a rather beautiful thing to look at, turning the sky a gentle orange and lighting up Coventry. But bombs and fire are not beautiful, they are deadly and dangerous and cause people severe physical and mental pain. That is what I have learnt tonight.
From the scratching bush, I can smell smoke lingering around the houses, I can hear screams and the whistle of falling bombs, I can feel the ground shudder as they collide with buildings, and I can see the wreckage that was once my house. The far wall still stands mostly, the white paint smudged and blackened from soot and my destroyed things. When I woke up to the air raid siren, my first thought was how tired I was and how much I simply wanted to sleep. But then the horror of what was happening hit me and I scrambled out of bed, dropping my blanket across the floor, and pulling on my dressing-gown as I sprinted down the corridor. My bare feet shook at the icy stone floor beneath me, but I ignored it as the yells of dying friends filled my ears and tears sprung into my eyes.
I flung Mother’s door open and began to shake her violently, screaming at her to wake up and go to the shelter with me. The warm tears began to fall down my cheeks as she refused to move, head lolling strangely. That is when I noticed the box of pills beside her table, they were the same ones that Aunt Serena (Fiona’s mother) uses. Then, I knew for certain, although it felt horrible to think, that I could not wake Mother up and that I had to reach the shelter myself and hope for the best.
From what I have already written, diary, you will know that the best did not happen. Whilst I was racing across our garden, the muddy grass slowing me down, you and my favourite toy bear Mr. Snuggles clutched in my arms, a bomb began to fall above us. It was like it happened slow-motion, like the entire world had frozen and the only thing that could move was that one piece of metal hurtling towards my house. Thinking fast, I leapt into a nearby bush as the bomb struck my home and there was a deafening explosion which knocked me out cold.
When I woke up, my house, my garden and everything around it was in flames. And my Mother, my sweet, grieving Mother, was nowhere to be seen. Though it cannot bring me any joy, I am still glad she died in her sleep, unaware of what was to happen, unaware of the danger she was in. She did not suffer, as I do now, with the loss of both her parents. I am bruised and cut as well, I am struggling to move my left leg and my head is very painful and is making the world spin. Perhaps, if I survive this, some brave person will come to find me and will take me back to my Grandparents so that they can keep me safe. Or maybe nobody will find me, maybe if there is nobody left to.
All I can do now is clutch Mr. Snuggles and hope that this end. That the deceiving flames and sky disappear, and that Mother and Father come back. But they never will. I know that.
York Book Award 