The Fence!

The precariously placed metal fence swayed gently in the soft summer breeze, like diamonds dancing in the intense afternoon sun. The distant cries of children playing hopscotch indistinguishable, from the faint Mexican ripple, of the metal enclosure that flowed for miles — as far as the eye could see; separating us from them.

I was aloft, like Rapunzel in her tower, or a King in his castle. Observing the green fields of the school, displayed in front of my eyes, I looked back towards Mrs Roger's bungalow. There was no sign of the strange old lady that lived inside — just a perfectly polished pair of court shoes, placed neatly outside her faded, weathered back door. Scared of hurtling towards my certain death, I tried to adjust my vantage point. Quickly I threw out my right arm, trying to grab hold of the tree, that helped me climb to the top of my World, higher than I had ever been before. I missed — Instead of a branch, I grasped the stem of an over ripe apple, scarcely in-situ; both of us awkwardly balancing with fear.

​Perched dangerously on the edge of the fence, wire gouging through my shorts, piercing the skin below, my badly bitten fingernails barely reached the stalk of the fruit; like me, we were both sent tumbling, cascading, towards the ground. A patch of beige corduroy was left attached to the turrets above, A battle war torn flag, scarred, frayed and covered in blood, fluttering there briefly, before being blown away into the gardens beyond,

I hit the grass with an unceremonious thud; briefly stunned as my back whacked hard against the ground, I took a deep sigh of relief — I was alive after all! My repose was short-lived, as prostration turned to pain, blood oozing from my leg. The wire railings had done their worst, leaving destruction in their wake. Tears began to well up in my eyes, as I gritted my teeth tightly, trying to ease the pain. As I sat there, looking up, towards the treacherous tree above, water cascading down my cheeks, crying turned to anxiety, worried about what Mother would say!

Suddenly Mrs Rogers returned, she caught my bloodshot eye, just as I caught hers. She must have been a thousand years old and always wore black — black dress, black stockings and shoes, looking over her black spectacles, with an air of authority and wisdom. Her white and grey, peppered hair, tied back in a bun, accentuated her jagged, grimacing, scowling features. Weather beaten, characterful, and a life long-lived, Mrs Rogers was the lifeblood of the community and a force to be reckoned with.

I was in trouble now; I was a gonna! Mrs Rogers had always scared the living daylights out of me. When Mother and I used to stop and talk to her in the street, she would always brush her bony fingers, along my jaw, finally flicking her nails upwards, as she met my chin. I remember her smiling, from the corner of her wrinkled lips; her stained, yellowing teeth snarling towards my face. Squinting, hiding, circumvent, I always avoided her stare as she endeavoured to kiss my brow.

I tried to move my bleeding leg, attempting to run away, but to no avail, as pain seared up my thigh. I tightly shut my windows on the World, laid back on the grass at the corner of the field, and put my fingers in my ears, drifting away to that place I often went, In times of stress. This beautiful, colourful World that still exists today, is one I still visit from time to time — comfy, soft, squishy, nurturing, a World of security and fun, existing only in my dreams! This was my safety zone, away from schoolboy pressures, the drudgery of life in class, and the disappointments of the day; a positive aspect of childhood that I kept as a reminder of things to come and an escape from the worst life threw my way.

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