I wrote this story as part of a Adult College course that I took, and it’s currently on a friend’s website, storyoftheweek.co.uk The web address, but I’ve decided to publish it here as well.
Runaway
Nazreen flicked a lock of her hair out of her eyes, smiling a little at the red tint, and then returned her gaze to the road before her. The music playing over her headphones soothed her a little, Harry Styles and the rest making her forget just how long it had been since she arrived at the museum steps.
Across the road she caught a glimpse of an elegantly jewelled sari, the turquoise fabric straining over the distended stomach of the middle aged woman. The sight sent a pang straight to her heart, and she wondered what her mother was doing now.
God I hope she doesn’t blame herself. What if dad blames her? He could have…no…no…he wouldn’t, he loves her. Nazreen suppressed the tiny part of her brain that piped up He loved you too, and look what he did.
Flicking off the music, and calling up the contacts, she scrolled through, her fingers pausing when she saw Home appear on the screen. Without thinking she let it start to ring. “Hello? Hello?” her mother’s voice poured into her ear, and she opened her mouth to speak.
“Who is it Ghita?” her father’s crisp tones were audible in the background. “Give me the phone. Hello? What number are you trying to…”
She rejected the call, her stomach tied in knots at the mere sound of her dad’s voice. A cool hand came to rest on the back of her neck. She half spun, twisting to face her elder sister. “It’s ok!” her sister held up both palms, as she saw the look in Nazreen’s eyes. “It’s just me,”
“I thought…I…” Nazreen wiped her sweaty hands on her jeans, before putting her phone into her pocket.
“I know,” Sita smiled softly, before bending to pick up the backpack that sat at Nazreen’s feet. She rolled her eyes at the 1D badge fixed to the front. “Naz really? I thought you’d be cooler than this,”
“Oh you can talk,” Nazreen bumped her hip against Sita’s as they started down the steps. “Mum showed me the Backstreet Boys badge Sita,”
Sita just laughed, pulling Nazreen closer with her free arm. Their stomachs growled in unison when the smell of frying onions hit them, from the open door of a burger joint. “Let’s get you something to eat,”
Musings of a thirtysomething woman 