Friday, 4 February 2011
03:09:05 PM (GMT)
I find it funny how nobody seems to understand me. My annoying little stupid
school friends to name but a few.
It’s the last day of term. I’m sitting at my desk in the tiny classroom with
thirty other pupils watching the clock tick down to the bell. Finally, the second
hand reaches the twelve and the bell rings. I jump to my feet and ‘whoop’,
running from the room and out into the corridor. I’m alone. I turn around- seems as
though I’m the only one- everyone else is just grabbing their bags and coats and
talking to their friends. Oh well.
So I skip out of the exit and down the lane, home. Leaping in through the door, I
make my mother scream in shock and fall off her chair. School ended five minutes ago.
It normally takes me twenty to get home.
I apologise quickly and skip up the stairs and into my room, and flop down upon my
bed. I think my room’s pretty normal, really, but you’d probably disagree. There
isn’t a TV or radio or mobile phone or iPod or laptop or anything else like that.
There’s just a bed and a wardrobe and a desk but that’s all I need.
I’m not like normal eleven year olds. Most ‘normal’ kids have toys and watch
television, but I’m not like them. I read and imagine, and do magic.
My mother, she’s a witch. It’s traditional in our society for us to go to a
normal school up until we’re due to go up to secondary. Then we go up to ‘the big
school’- where we learn to become wizards or witches. I kick my trainers onto the
floor and pull open my wardrobe, lifting out a pair of robes and hugging them to my
chest… not long now.
I turn back to my bed and lie down, pulling open the drawer of my bedside table and
taking from it a long, deep red box. It had been in there for as long as I remember,
but I haven’t been allowed to open it, ever. And now I can.
I pull open the lid and draw back the silk lining, looking down at the wand within.
Blackthorn and phoenix feather. I pull it from the lining and hold it in my right
hand, and then raising my arm, wonder at the golden-red sparks falling from its tip.
I sit at the kitchen table, picking nervously at my dinner, when an owl swoops in
through the window and drops a letter into my lap. Opening the envelope, I read the
This is it. I’m going home.