By Caroline Ashley
Stop.
Take me home.
Take me back to the Bridge Street flat. Drinking shots with Emma; arguing over dishes with Tom; and sharing slouched, hungover silences every Sunday morning. The family I made at university; the people I found to call my own. But the real world stretched the miles between us and we haven’t spoken in years.
Take me home to the magnolia living room and green leather sofa, exposed skin adhering to its surface. Dad smoking by the window, dram gliding over ice. As darkness wraps around the house, he’ll offer a smug, puffed-chest challenge to a round of chess. I’ll play again and maybe win, just once.
Take me back to the holiday park where I broke my arm racing bikes with my brother. My mum standing over us, raging like the seas, but the salt water turns to frightened, panicked tears. The park shut down years ago and I can’t remember the path we cycled, but Mum would know it.
Take me back to the long school walk, scuffing shoes along the ground, my fingers interlinked with Mum’s. The rain soaking my tights and trailing icy fingers up my arms, till Mum lights the fire and melts them away.
Take me home.
These wreaths, these gravestones, these stone-carved platitudes – they make me feel sick.
Take me to where I can call and listen to boring stories about the next-door neighbours mixed in with concerns for my future. I would treasure every syllable, as if it were a fresh-cut diamond.
About The Author
Caroline Ashley is a clinical psychologist who works for the NHS in Scotland. She primarily writes fantasy with the occasional foray into sci-fi and horror. Her favourite authors will always be JRR Tolkien and Terry Pratchett but she also has a soft spot for the romantasy genre. If she had any spare time around raising her two young children, she would spend it playing board games.
Caroline Ashley 