Winter
It had started with a cold, which followed by a chest infection, which has resulted in you feeling so drained you can’t manage a full day of school, exercise your horse, keep your place on the school hockey team or go out with friends. The days bleed into one another, a haze of television, sleep and boredom. You’re waking late and going to bed early, but sleep is eluding you. Eventually you have to ask the doctor about it, and she suggests melatonin. Your nights become filled with vivid, intoxicating dreams; you cling to their vitality and feel as though you’re exploring a kind of catharsis, your anger, frustration, passion, ambition, sadness, all emotions are reflected in this world of wonder.
*
You surge along the crest of the hill, Tom beside you, galloping like your ethereal cousins the white horses that bring the waves crashing to the shoreline. Mane streaming behind, neck arched, nostrils flaring as adrenalin courses through your veins. Bay coats gleaming in the sunlight, hooves barely touching the emerald grass as you and he fly as one, mere blurs against the horizon of rolling hills and billowing clouds in shades of palest peach and silky blush. Flanks heaving, you pause, ears pricked, exempt from time and constraint. Then once again you are off, riding the wind.
*
Spring
You wake feeling...happy. For a moment you just lie there, savouring the almost forgotten emotion before forcing yourself from under the refuge of the duvet and downstairs. Pulling on battered Hunters you slip out the door and cross the frosted carpet of the orchard, heading to the stables. Tom gives a soft snicker of welcome; you knot your fingers in his mane, feeling his brushed velvet muzzle and warm tendrils of breath on your neck against the winter chill. Anger is seeping back through though, ugly and bitter. You haven’t been able to ride him for weeks. You should be getting him fit for your first season of competitions together. There’s so much you’re missing out on. Because you have chronic fatigue. Suspended while everyone else is moving. The beautiful fluttering hope of the dream is crushed like a butterfly.
*
The country of Russia, home to the desperate, the damaged and the dispossessed.
“One, two, three, one, two, three.” He whispers in your ear softly, causing you to roll your eyes.
The orchestra playing the waltz, the rest of the dancers twirl around the polished marble floor. The men in their military finery, the women in their beautiful silken gowns, the candle-light giving the scene a soft, almost hazy quality.
He’s so close to you that you can feel his breath on your neck as you dance. Your hand on his brocade shoulder, his arm around your waist. You’ve missed him. You worry about him, ever since he’s been helping the riots. He shouldn’t, he’s a young idealist in an imperialist’s world.
The wooden doors are flung open; it’s revolutionaries. Hundreds of them, armed with guns and hatred. They have come for the men, the royal soldiers. Many have children, and many are children themselves. He’s sixteen.
“Goodnight Natasha,” he bows, kissing your hand-the ultimate gentleman.
He manages a weak smile, you don’t trust your voice, the snake curling in your stomach twists painfully and you feel a lump in your throat, tears welling. He catches a stray drop with his fingertip. And then he gets taken away.
*
Summer
You wake in a cold sweat, it’s half four in the morning. School looms in the morning. In a few hours and you’re taking exams.
*
School attendance creeps up, slowly. You slowly reclaim your social life. You’re able to ride out Tom. You’re so grateful to be moving again not backtracking against the current. But then the doctors decide to get involved. After grudgingly deciding you’re a bit better, they in their infinite wisdom think you can do without melatonin. After all, you sleep better now don’t you? You stay silent, your night time experiences leave you breathless with wonder, joy and sometimes pain. But that’s part of them, and part of life, you’ve got to be prepared for rough weather. You’re just worried you’re losing your sails. You lie in bed; the prescription isn’t to be repeated once you’ve finished this course. And the dreams with them. What if, your throat constricts in fear, you return to darkness in slumber. The doors to freedom locked and like Alice you can’t enter Wonderland.
*
You stroll along, dwarfed by the reassuring presence of Papa. His own calloused hand, tenderly cradling your own in a gentle grip. Jess the old dog sauntering, her tail wagging steadily like a comforting heartbeat. Your mind swirling with excitement and innocence, you’re going to see a dragon. Papa smiles down at you, it was he who whispered the mission tonight; you’re going to steal a peek at the dragon in the field. You’ve passed the house, to the mountain of a hill where you normally go for bonfire night and should see the winking lights of Edinburgh. But her eyes are screwed tight shut, she doesn’t want to see herself, war-ravaged by these dragons, which bombard venomous hatred in the dark, swooping and riding the clouds.
That’s why the Polish troops are here, to protect us if the evil dragons get too close, that’s what Papa says anyway. But the air is close and still tonight, and so the dragon has decided to stretch his wings, to immerse himself in the stars and hope that war will be over by Christmas. He growls, soaring into the sky and you gasp at the childish delight of his flight. But then.
The night explodes, curling on itself in the heat of the flames. You cower behind your papa whimpering as white-hot shards of metal rain from the heavens. His voice cracks “The petrol tank.” Faithful Jess comes, you hold out your arms to her, ready for her. From her mouth she drops the pilots hand into your lap.
*
The page is staring at you, three lines of pathetic text. Creative Writing, Word Count:6.You’ve looked through albums online for inspiration, read goodness knows how many books and still nothing seems genuine or real. You drift for a moment floating through an ocean of shallow ideas until you stop suddenly. Perhaps you could write from your own experience. Memories are flickering, photo-like captions of you at your most vulnerable. Yet, creative, you were weaving a Technicolor world to escape the sepia-toned reality, the threads escaping from your own unhappiness.