I was woken up by a noise downstairs.
I think.
First there was a hard slam, like a hefty door that had been thrown shut by the whistling wind.
Secondly there was a high-pitched scream, like the sound of a choking sparrow.
On third place, an inevitable crash, sounding like when I dropped my sisters porcelaindoll, yesterday.
Boom. Argh. Screech.
I grabbed my Pingu, held on to him, to my chest tightened,
Meeting his eyes made out of yarn, I could tell that he knew, that I was frightened.
I think.
I sat up, leaning back against the wall, built out of pinewood,
Ouch. A splinter buried itself into the back of my shoulder.
I heard mummy’s voice;
Think about sugar, think about honey and you’ll forget the pain, it’ll be all good.
Mummy said many good things;
Rita, you are brave like a knight.
Rita, your happiness and smile shine bright, like the sunlight.
Rita, you are the definition of love at first sight.
I jumped down from the homebuilt bed, creating a squeaking sound.
Rubbed my eyelids, covering my purple-green eyes.
Peaking at the old, mauve-coloured armchair, of which the cherry-wooden feet had been nibbled on by mice.
The sun rose,
Made my pupils shrink.
Blushing pink, citrus-yellow and shy-blue colours carefully let my fatigue fade away.
I liked the nuances, hoped for them to stay.
Rita!
The door opened without the squeaking handle giving me a pre-warning.
It looked like my oldest brother stood inside a painting in front of me, the door framing him.
Sven was the strongest of them all.
The funniest of them.
The warmest.
He took ponderous steps towards me, making the fragile windows vibrate,
Lifted me up.
I rested my head on his shoulder,
Letting my almost white, thin curls stroke my apple cheeks.
My nose started to sense the smell of smoke,
Both our throats were tickled,
Sven coughed, I choked.
I think.
A moment later I was put onto the gravel road outside the old, historic house.
Orange flames flickered in the eyes of my brothers and sisters.
Flames of fears, flames creating tears.
My sight was drawn to the fields, the ones that were golden and dry.
They’d been caught by the red flower.
It couldn’t be true, on such a beautiful morning in mid-July,
I closed my eyes and told myself
It’s a lie!
It’s a nightmare.
It’s a lie!
I ran to the other side of the house, to the big porch.
It was lit by the red flower,
Was gifted copper-coloured sparks, like sudden lights from a torch.
I was shocked, yet astonished by how everything changed colours and then slowly disappeared.
My chin lifted towards the green-tiled roof by invisible marionette-strings,
All our things…
I looked up to my window.
PINGU!
On unstable, skinny legs, I opened the flimsy backdoor.
I had to save him. I had time, I was sure.
My white cotton-gown went grey, was painted with ashes and dust.
The furniture around me looked like they suddenly aged, being given the colour of rust.
I coughed and coughed.
Peered to see.
Soon I’d be up on the attic to finally set Pingu free.
Very last step and there he was. Sweating in the sheets of my princess bed.
I jumped up to grab him before the flower could reach us.
The flower of red.
As soon as my fingers touched him, there was an unforeseen shower of comfort. A shower of tiredness.
My eyes fell, in harmony with a loud cry
Rita!
Then I fell asleep.
I think.
juliaharryson 