Dead Tired
By Kate Ryrie, age 11, from Market Harborough, Leicestershire
I grappled around in the darkness for my glasses; the world had blurred since they'd fallen off. My hand found them, and I shoved them on, only to find that the left lens had splintered. It was her fault I was in this mess; if it wasn't for her.
They were still there, chasing me, I could hear them; men's voices and a dog's harsh bark. I stood up and ran, my hands out in front of me, as I could not even see my own feet. My right hand came in sudden contact with cold iron, I felt all around it. A tunnel. I crawled in as far is I could go and sat, hunched up on the grimy bottom of the pipe, my breath clouding the air around me.
I thought about all that had happened just half an hour before. 'Is he dead?' That was the only thing inside my head and it was whizzing round, faster that light. I would not let the tears come, the lump in my throat was almost choking me; but I would fight my feelings until I died if I had to.
I crouched in the shadows, pressing myself against the wall, praying that I wouldn't be seen. Then I saw them running past, looking puzzled and calling my name.
"Skye, SKYE, we won't hurt you!" It was followed by abuse and swearing that turned my blood cold. But they'd lost me, at least they'd lost me. I half relaxed, but the other part of my body was still on red alert.
It was something different about the shadows that caught my eye. The door. No NO it couldn't; not now. I scrambled towards it, slipping from the curved sides and cracking my hip against the riveted metal. I was too late, the door shut with a resounding clang; my fingertips inches away from stopping it. I scrabbled at the huge rusty bolts but all in vain.
It was then that I let the tears come. They cascaded down my cheeks like a salty waterfall. I still couldn't quite take it in, she'd tricked me; my own sister. She shot my uncle. I was so confused; she'd always loved him, but I kept thinking about him falling down; thinking that I'd killed him. Then she'd thrown the pistol at my feet and ran over to kneel at his side, shouting "Help, murder! Christ help us!" then the whole street was chanting: "Murderer." Then my brother ran out.
"Skye, run just run" he yelled.
It was then that it dawned on me what was actually happening. It was then that I ran.
So that's how I got here.
I could hear something. A tapping much further on in the darkness. The smell was repulsive. It was making my throat sting and my nostrils flare. The tapping kept on. I froze as if I was super glued to the wall, my heart pounding like horses hooves. I decided to go on. After all, what could happen that was worse than would happen if they caught me?
No. I heard it again louder and less like a tapping, more a whooshing like water; but I was in one of those moods, I couldn't care less if wild dogs were chasing me.
It was my last breath that made me give up. The sticky choking air just made me want to stop; lie down; no more worries; sleep.
I was woken by cold and wet. I breathed in and water filled and burnt my lungs like acid. I coughed and spluttered. I was in water, deep water and it was pushing me backwards, forcing my arms and legs behind my body. I couldn't breathe, I had to breathe. My back hit the door and pain exploded up my spine. The water pressure increased pushing me harder and harder.
The last thing I remember was my back support giving way. That was when I lost consciousness altogether.
Then I remember my vision or I suppose my illusion.
I was sitting on a chair, surrounded by darkness. I shifted uncomfortably, as the chair was hard and wooden. Then I heard a voice. It was the news on a crackly, old radio. An American voice blared out.
The news today. I knew it was in the future because it had said 1998. Alexandra Lavelle has been found dead after being drugged by police in America. She was found guilty two months ago of shooting her uncle George Pearce and tricking the police into thinking that her sister, Skye Lavelle, had done so, in the hope that she then would be left the amazing fortune that Mr Pearce owned. The large sum of money has gone to the Lavelle family, to account for the unfortunate deaths of their two daughters. Now, on to other news.
The voice then faded off. That was it then, the danger had passed, for me, and for her - I think.
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