Oak Wings

By Liya Wilms. Liya, 13, lives in Cologne, Germany. Please read her article and leave your thoughts and comments below.

Hi, my name is Rebecca! I know you can see me. The brown hair, the hazel eyes, the ruffled top, whatever you wish, it’s true. I’m not here to tell you what I have done in the past, I’m not here to tell you how I look like in the mirror, I am here to tell you how I feel and how I live. This isn’t my first story I’ve told, but it is my last.

6:30, I drag myself out of bed and start the same cycle that I can’t seem to end. An endless repetition of ways of living like everyone other than me. I can’t continue to pretend like I am normal. I can’t get out of bed and make breakfast thinking that I am going to have a fun day at school, when I get out of bed and make breakfast thinking the bread I am making is a world of peaceful critters that feed on marmalade and Nutella and sacrifice their lives in order to fulfill the needs of an unhappy and utterly worthless person that doesn’t fit in with this world.

I feel alone. The class that I sit in feels empty. The house that I live in feels imaginary. The only thing that feels real are the trees. The trees that give us air to breathe and the trees that hold the swings.

The deserted classes I claim to learn from, only teach me one thing. They teach me how much I miss my tree, because after I come home, that’s where I stay. That is my home. The oak tree with the swing. A beautiful, majestical creature, that stands higher than everyone and never leaves.

I sit there everyday, from noon to night, and live.

The second my fingertips grip the rusted chains that attach to the bare plank, that I place myself on, they turn into luxury turkey legs and a royal, gold-plated bergère. Mahogany is what lays before me. A marvelous masterpiece carved by the finest of the finest, set with fragile china, each accommodated by a meaningful figure of my visionary life. My sister to my right and my mother to my left, while we devour our three course meals.

My imagination creates a place that I can finally call home. A simple fire to toast our butter smeared family.

Rather than feeling judged, I feel like I belong.The higher I swing, the more I feel free, the more I feel like I can fly. I reach to touch the stars I see, but that is not what I reach for anymore. I reach to cover my head from the fall, a leap to the ground and sleep.

I sleep until I wake up, greeted by a content full face, concealed by a concerned expression from my stepmother.

It was not only the fall I was to recover from after that night, it was stage 4, an irreversible stage that I was never to come back from. I lay here for 3 weeks.

I’m tired. I’m exhausted. I’m done.

I know you don’t care, but I know you can see me. The bald head, the hospital skirt, the drifting imminent dead girl. Goodnight my tree. I hope I am the last you let fall.


5 comments on “Oak Wings

  1. Hema Wilms on

    Really loved the story!! It was unexpected and sad, but full of emotion and feeling. It touched me and that’s what stories are supposed to do. Keep writing and believing in your words and that way you can touch others with them.

  2. Arun R on

    Amazing storytelling skills! At your age I didn’t have nearly one-tenth that amount of literary prowess. Keep writing – in this age of texting and tweeting, good writing and storytelling is becoming a rare talent.


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