Leave comments peoples. It's going to be a romance - eventually when I update it!


I ran with the ball, dribbling it, passing it between my two feet. I glanced up at my opponents who came at me with determination and annoyance flickering in their eyes, as their feet tried to pry the ball from my grasp. I changed my direction, left to right, right to left, avoiding them, dodging them like a car dodging red cones on the road. The breeze and the roaring of the crowd was loud in my ears. I was driven on by the power which I had by possessing the ball, I was high on the exhilaration as the crowd's cheers grew more excited, more frantic as I inched closer and closer to the goal, to victory.
No one expected it. No one expected me, Henna Casey, a girl to be one of the best the town had ever seen, in the skillful game of soccer. It was a boy dominated game - a game of high testosterone levels and the occasional fist fights. And then I came along - with brown tanned skin, long blonde hair and an interest in my appearance - a girl who everyone thought would never last in a game of rough playing boys and speed. Yet, I'd proved them all wrong. I'd quickly become a weapon, someone the coach's told their players to "watch" and "look out for". Because I tore up the field like a cyclone, leaving the players like discarded debris behind me.
Ahead of me, Jake Jenkins waved his hand at me. He was in the open, unguarded and had a clear shot at goal - but.......

I wanted to claim the victory for myself. I wanted to be the one to taste the sweet flavour of being the reason, the one responsible for my team's victory. And I knew I could. I knew that I could leave this one last player between me and fame behind and I could get the ball past the nervous goalie into the net.
"Henna over here!" Jenkins called, as if I hadn't already seen him, as if I hadn't already considered passing the ball to him. His eyes were desperate - he didn't think I could do it. What did he think I was? A chicken? A weakling? I just kicked half the other team's butt, as I came down the field from the other team's corner kick and he thought that I couldn't get past this one last guy?

I shook my head to him. "No," I mouthed. He furiously slapped his thighs and watched, waiting for my downfall, for my failure so he could mock me for the rest of my time. I narrowed my eyes. No way was Henna Casey going to fail anybody.

Ahead of me loomed Peter Goode, nicknamed The Brick because he was wide and solid like a brick. Or more like a brick wall. He had dark brown hair and his eyes were narrowed as he watched me, trying to anticipate my next moves. He came at me, his fat legs surprisingly fast and nimble. Before long, he was beside me, his breath coming short bursts on my neck, his legs almost intertwining in a running rhythm with mine. I could smell his sweat.

"You're going down, Henna Casey. You've had luck - but luck runs out," Peter whispered, nudging in his foot to take the ball from me.

"You may be a brick Peter but you know what I am?" I asked him.

"What?" he whispered back.

"Lightning,"

With that, I burst into speed, leaving him surprised behind me. The element of surprise - it never failed. I was almost at the goal now. The goalie watched me with intense concentration. I watched him back. Closer, closer.

Jenkins' mocking face to the side of me. The goalie's sweat covered face in front of me. The famous brick's face with annoyance behind me.

I reached the goalie box. The goalie ran out. His first mistake. I jiggled the ball to my other foot, ready to kick. But I had no plans to yet. He went to the side of me where the ball was, ready to intercept it. One, two, three.

I placed the ball to my other foot and dribbled around him and smack - the sweet wooshing sound of the ball flying through air. The even better sound as it hits the net, captured.

The whistle blows. My team mates jog over to me, slapping me on the back. Two months ago it would've hurt. Now it just makes me feel good.

"Good on ya! We thought you were gone when the brick was on ya," Keller says as the game ends and we jog over to the seats where our coach waits with a big smile.

"So did I," Jenkins growls.

"Maybe you should learn that you don't always need to think in a game of soccer," I reply, opening my drink bottle and drinking from it.

"Or maybe you should learn how to play like team," Jenkins replies.

He jogs off. My victory taste turns sour for a moment. Stuff him. He's just jealous of me.





When I get home, I put my soccer gear on the floor and begin to untie my shoe laces. The place is silent and lonely and I wonder where my parents are. It's unusual for them to be out and about - together.

My mum and dad hate each other. Well at least, that's what it seems like. Dad spends most of his time in front of the tv, his mouth firmly fixed to a beer bottle whilst his butt is firmly fixed to the recliner. He barely does anything except give orders or yell abuse at my mum and me. More often then not, he also abuses us physically, but I don't put up with it. Mum does however.

Mum could've been beautiful. She could've had any guy in the world. Instead, she picked a cherry picker who doesn't let her out of his sight, doesn't let her wear any pretty clothes and instead makes her wear things fit for grannies and who couldn't care a less about her. The only thing dad cares about is his alcohol.

I hate them both. I hate dad for making mine and my mum's life a living hell but I hate my mum for letting him have the satisfaction of doing that. She doesn't stand up for herself, doesn't just grab the car keys, pack her bags and go. And she could. It's not like he's locked her up literally in a prison where there is no way of escape. All she would have to do is get some guts. But instead she shrinks back into the shadows, trying to become invisible, letting her soul and all her dreams die, sacrificing herself and everything she could be for him. The stupid fat man who she thought was the man of her dreams.

Yeah, the man of her nightmares is the only thing he could possible be.

I take my gear upstairs and put them back in the cupboard neatly. Being neat is what happens when your father hits you if he so much as sees a bit of paper on the floor in your room. Now I'm as much opposed to mess as he is. What scares me the most is just that - how alike we are. What would happen, if I too, became a couch potato, addicted to the bottle and abusing and lying to everyone around me? Even though I've vowed to myself on the many nights as I lay in bed, crying myself to sleep or trying to control the anger which courses through my veins, what if it runs in the very blood which bubbles inside me when I so much as think of my father and the cruel things he's done? What if there is no escaping it, no running from it, no way out? If it's biological?

I brush my hair and strip off my clothing, peeling back the sweaty layers of my thick wooly socks and my uniform. I lock the bathroom door behind me - an incident occured when I left it unlocked and I'm not about to go through it again. I scrub my skin, washing away the physical reminders of the game - the grime and the sweat. And when finally, I conclude that I'm clean, I turn off the shower and step out in the steam and towel myself dry before dressing in a pair of loosely fitting jeans and a too-big top, ready for a casual afternoon.

But as I step in my room the phone begins to ring. Rushing down the stairs, I answer it.

"Hello?"

"Hello. Is this Henna Casey speaking?" An unfamiliar male voice replies.

"Yes, whom is speaking?" I ask politely.

"This is Sergeant McKenzie. We have some bad news,"

"What do you mean?"

"Your mum and dad have been in a car accident on the highway. I'm afraid it's not looking good - could you get to the hospital ASAP?"

"O-of course," I hang up the phone and call a taxi agency and wait impatiently for it. Seconds feel like hours, hours like years. No wonder people age when bad things happen - if a second is an hour and an hour like a year then if a bad thing happens for five hours you're five years older. I hold my sweater of my arm and my purse and just wait.

When the taxi arrives I give my destination and wait once more. But I grow calmer as we get closer for some reason.

When I get there, I rush inside and give my name at the reception desk. A nurse gives me a sympathetic look.

"You're Henna Casey? Well, the news isn't good I'm afraid," A police man comes up to me, holding his hat in his hands. Oh god, isn't that what they do when someone dies?

"I'm sorry, Henna but your mother and father died in the accident. Your father was killed instantly, your mother died on the way here. Lost too much blood I'm afraid. It was a collision with another vehicle which was speeding," The policeman says sadly.

I'm in shock. It's like I've been frozen instantly. I can't feel, I can't think. Dead? Hell no. They can't be. They haven't even ever watched me play soccer. They don't even know me properly yet. I have a thousand things to say to them. Yet.....what?

A part of me is glad. I realise it's there, that small part of me and slowly it grows as it realises I know. Glad. Glad that they're gone. Out of my life. No more fearing of bruises, no more hiding from my dad when he's drunk and looking for someone to injure, to hurt. No more mum, hiding in the shadows or letting her life pass her by. No more - nothing.

I sit on the chair and look at my lap. Freedom. It hits me like a wave. I'm free of their grasps. And though I feel horrible about it, I can't help it. They've set me free.




At home, it feels lonely. No sounds of mum in the kitchen cooking dinner which won't meet dad's standards yet she tries her hardest anyway, no more hum of the television, no more string of swear words from dad's mouth as he insults whoever is playing football or cricket and who makes a mistake, no more burping as dad drowns himself in alcohol, no more mum, a prescence unappreciated.

It feels - weird. I can't believe that in a short period of time I went from Henna, Mum and Dad to just Henna. An orphan. I'm an orphan. You don't have orphans in real life. They only exist in books. But now, I am one.

I wonder what will happen to me. I'm almost 18. I'll inherit the house - everything. It scares me. I have to grow up even quicker now. I'll have to be responsible. Deal with finances and stuff. Am I ready for it?

I have to meet with funeral directors tomorrow. It still feels surreal. Like a dream. Strange.

I don't know what to do. Act normal? But normality is so far away now. Out of my grasp. Out of reach. Normal people don't lose their parents. And feel glad about it. God, what kind of person am I?

Instead, I log onto the computer. People from my soccer team are on. Somehow they already know the news.

Keller: God, I'm sorry about your parents, Hen.
Henna: How did you know about it?
Keller: Jenkins told me
Henna: How the hell did he know?
Keller: Don't you know?
Henna: If I knew would I be asking?
Keller: Well, he and his parents were in the car your parents crashed into.

Henna has logged off.


Jenkins. He and his parents were in the other car. The speeding car. The car that killed MY parents. Holy god. Either I should feel angry or thankful to Jenkins. I find myself feeling angry. He killed my parents.

I couldn't believe it. Jenkins. He is the reason that I'm an orphan.

I reach for the phone. I ring his house. He picks up. Jenkins. Murderer.

"Hello?" Jenkins says, his voice unsuspecting.
"Hi, it's Henna," I reply.
"Oh shit, Henna, now isn't a good time......"
"What? You kill my parents and you tell me that now isn't a good time to talk to me?
"Henna I didn't mean it like that,"
"Then what the hell did you mean?"
"Well, my mum and dad need me,"
"What the hell for? To kill more people?"
"Henna! God. You think they killed them?"
"Yes I do,"
"Holy shit,"
"Excuse me?
"Sorry. Look, Henna sorry. But I can't talk right now. My mum is in the middle of an operation and my dad is in a coma on life support. If you think I need to listen to your accusations right now then think again."

He hangs up. I'm filled with anger. I'm filled with hate. I go the the fridge. A glistening bottle of alcohol. It calls me. I grab it and down it in one go. Another. Another. Another. Another. I slip into unconsciousness. Fading away.

oh. i can see where this is going. lmao. but i won't spoil it for anyone else.

anyway, some minor errors: my two feet shoule be " my feet" it sounds better,

a girl to be one of the best the town should be " a girl, to be..."


other than that, i am liking this! you can definitely write!

Very action packed! I like the imagery you used too!