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by Cece Bertelsen

I stumble up to the crooked wooden door. My heart thumps in my mouth and I can feel the sick panic rise, but I manage to hold it down. My bare feet are bruised and ache. My head throbs, but I just have to focus and keep my vision clear. I knock on the door with my skeleton hands.

The door creaks open and a small pair of eyes blankly blink at me. "Muma! Someone is at the door, she looks ill," the little boy screams. How does Timmy not remember me, I guess it was three years ago and he was a little thing. I play with my frail thumbs, helplessly trying to ignore the fact Timmy is practically staring into my soul.

Mum walks up to the door impatiently, and I can tell she's frustrated about something. As soon as her eyes pounce on me she slaps her firm hands onto her chapped lips to conceal her gasp. Timmy isn't interested anymore and skips back to his room. Heavy tears form in mum's eyes and they trickle down her smooth cheeks. 'Grace is that really you,"

"Yes muma its really me," my voice cracks .

"Steve! Honey come here,"

"Yeh one minute,"

"no now... look," mum stutters impatiently. I can see the years of sorrow in her eyes and I feel bad, really I do. Dad lazily gestures up to the door trying to provoke the fact that he has better things to do. Oh but when he sees me , God if I could relive any moment it would sure be this moment, jaw dropped and all the colour drained from his face.

Mum falls to her knees and begins to weep. After about five minutes of this they finally invite me in. I know I look terrible but the embarrassment is over whelmed by everything else. An unwanted thought creeps into my head about Luke I shouldn't care about him, I know I shouldn't especially since he is the reason I look and feel how I do. Muma lightly touches my pallid, ill face.

The wooden floor boards softly heat up my ruined feet. The smell of the radiators and washing powder washes through my cracked nostrils, and floods of memories appear in my head. I see a colony of pictures up on the wall and I star in more than half of them. Tears form in my eyes and I look at all of the happy memories I shared with my family. I realise how hard it must have been for them. I catch Muma staring at me, examining me, trying to understand what is going on in my head. A sarcastic smile spreads across my face as I try to sympathise for Muma.

Muma guides me up to my room and I see everything laid out exactly how I left it; they haven't changed a thing... for three years. My eyes trace across the room as I take it all in. I'm back.