The Worst Day of the Week

By Rufus Hornyold-Strickland, aged 11

Scrambling and grasping, I tried to stay in my safe zone but my muscles gave up. I was dragged down on the descent to the vehicle. The agonising burn on my skin was like I was being roasted alive on a roaring fire. The rough textured floor scarred me. Creaking, the rusty hinges swung the door back and forwards. The vehicle’s door opened and I was forced in. Slamming and bashing, it trapped me; there was no escape.

Looking out of the clouded glass, I searched worriedly for an escape. All the excuses had failed. Jolting to a stop, the moving metal cage flung me forward. I was dragged into the dark chamber room; it stank. Filling my nostrils, the putrid smells wafted through the air. I was forced to put on the tight, restrictive clothing that made me struggle to breath.

Quick wittedly, when they weren't looking, I ran to the only exit possible. Just at the moment when I thought I had made it, I was tugged by the leg. I fell on the floor; it was hard rock. “Oh no you don’t!” it bellowed.

I was pulled by the neck all the way back. Whenever I looked through a window, I would see poor people getting tortured. That was what was about to experience. The door to where I was going to was in sight. It slowly opened, “Welcome George. Do come in.”

Inside there was a tall lady, who loomed over me with her pencil-like frame. She was a witch; I was sure of it. Piercing like a hawk, her wide open eyes glared at me. Her lips were like the end of a bunched up sausage. She had a thin neck which led to her bony arms that had elbows like the peak of a steep mountain; her flakes of skin were a light crusting of snow on its summit. Her fingernails were sharp swords that you didn’t want to get too close to. As tight as a spring, her waist sprang violently in all directions. Her feet seemed like they were made to poke people if they misbehaved. It was the day I dreaded...

Ballet class.