For the Third Advent Treat :)


1. Imagine


It's when I see the knife pulled out from behind his back, that I flinch. It's then that I push away, letting go from his grip and hurriedly walking to the door.

"Where do you think you're going?" His voice echoes through the household, bellowing after me, beckoning after me, pleading for me.

Angrily, I step out into the cold breeze that thwacks me straight in the face, like the idea of this situation just did a moment ago. Pulling my hoodie around my chest tighter, I turn my back on him, fighting against the strong winds.

Where do you think you're going?

His voice is a constant flow of pain through my mind, replaying as I continue to walk briskly, trying to put space between us, between this confined space where nothing but hate lies.

Where do you think you're going?

The truth is I don't know. I don't know if I'm going to be the one chased, or the one to run back. Neither, I hope. No footsteps seem to thunder behind me, and there's no chance of me going back there now.

But as I enter the park, everything seems to catch up on me. Flashbacks of the fight between my parents comes flooding back, and tears begin to streak down my face like they've never done before. I don't know where I'm going and I don't know who to trust. When everything's lost, what do I have anymore?

As time moves along, I continue to walk around the park. Never-ending circles; never-ending thoughts; never-ending pain, whilst my mind runs free, reflecting what happened a few minutes ago.

I was in my room one minute, downstairs the next. I'd come down for dinner, as usual, and I sat at the table with not even a slight greeting. My Dad doesn't appreciate what I have to say, and this time he didn't, especially.

Sitting there, I waited until he dumped the plate in front of me, gravy sliding over the side. He didn't seem to notice, or if he did, he didn't say or do anything.

"Careful." I had muttered, without thinking anything of it. It was then that he turned around, leaning down on the table so his eyes were level with mine. Red bolts of anger darted through his eyes.


"Don't give me that attitude. You can cook it next time if you like."

That was when I was startled, grabbing my knife and fork before stuffing my face full. As soon as I'd done, I wanted to leave the table; my Dad's alcoholic mind had already given me such a fright at the beginning, and I didn't want to put up with it any longer.

Dunking my plate in the sink, I was about to leave. But that was when he stood up, blocking my way to the door.

"What's with the rush?" His voice was twisted, unlike him.

"I have homework to do." I lied.

He stared at me, before gently pushing me aside and heading to the sink. Instead of placing his in there he smashed it, the pieces crumbling apart. Broken.

"I don't know what I believe anymore. You're always up in your room and never down here helping around the house."

"Dad, I cook dinner most nights." It's something I've always done since Mum had left. "You asked to cook tonight."

It was then that he turned, that he changed from being full of innocence to hatred, pure hatred.

"Don't give me that! You..."

"Dad, you've been drinking. Just let this go, please." I pleaded, mind already filling up with these unpleasant images of someone who was my Dad, but who is now a monster.

It was then that I pushed on. I weaved past to get to the doorway. He grabbed my wrist so tight I felt like he could have ripped it apart right there. Holding the pain in so tightly, I tried not to show what I felt.

"Let me go." It was as simple as that, but not simple in his mind.

"No." His voice was rising, deafening.

That was when his hand revealed the knife, so deadly, so threatening.

And that's when I left. Left because there was nothing left sane to do.


So now, once I've rounded the park twice, I duck beneath a tree, arms wrapping around my front. Being here, I feel vulnerable, like the girl in the book I've been reading.

She's an angel, though. Her wings spread and her clothes pure white - goodness and innocence. Now, I'm like a wounded angel. Imagining wings on my back, they would be torn - torn slices of bleeding wounds running down my back. And I wouldn't be white, I'd be a deathening black. I'd be a dark colour gradually filling the whole of my innocence, goodness. Without realising, I've turned angry, I've felt pain, and I'm here trying to protect myself from the world around me, whilst real angels protect others.

Leaning over, I look up. Dried tears down my stained cheeks, I know this isn't the end. I'm an ever-lasting angel, whether I'm here or not. So as I scan my eyes across the park, seeing my Dad standing the other side is a shock. Maybe I'm not willing to stand up to him again, but I know that as an angel, I'm protected.

All I have to do is imagine those wings, attached to my rear, and fly away into another land.

Another land where I can just think, just imagine, just dream.

A place where everything can be how I want it to be.


Picture the perfect ending.


Fly high as an angel, and don't stop til' you've reached your idea of heaven.


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