But it’s not soon enough for me, even though I can see the stays of sunlight through the old roof, through the beams and the hay stored above me. It’s barely even enough to will me out of my blanket. Sometime in the night I had lost the light, I’d been left with nothing but rain, fear, noise and my own mind.
The bell is ringing.
My Grandmother’s opened the door, she was eating too. I wonder if she’ll come looking for me if I don’t go in. Would she care enough after the storm? I can’t feel my feet, and the idea of moving makes more sore muscles groan even more loudly. I close my eyes. Just a moment. Just a moment longer.
And I can hear the barn creaking, even as I try to sleep. Even curled under the blanket and surrounded by light, it’s growing louder. It’s growing colder. A crack of thunder has me screaming before I’m even aware of why. It’s just soloudout here. Why is it so much different from the house?
Another crack of thunder has me unable to even attempt to sleep, my eyes glued on the flickering lights. I had the doors locked, I had the bar down, nothing would be able to get into the barn.
But last time I had been locked out, I remembered to bring a blanket outside for the next time. Even if I had told myself many times that it would never happen again.
The straw is soft, but it itches, my shirt is thin and the little reeds poke at me through the fabric. I could sleep on top of the blanket and be comfortable from them and cold, or I could sleep below the blanket and be warm.
If I stand on my toes, I can be taller then them, I can see my house from the field. But most of all, I can see the Scarecrow, it’s almost a mile away from where I am. But the crows are all there, they’re circling the thing like it’s not supposed to terrify them.
My heart is pounding, but I want to see it, I want to see why they’re there, I want to know.
And I am seven. Seven years old to the day. And my Grandmother hasn’t looked at me once today, her fingers are clenched around a rosary, and she’s praying to god to save her.
Save her from what, I wonder.
Save her from me? What had I done that she needed saving from.
My cheek is bruised, a little cut on the other, I was learning now to be afraid of anyone that came to the farmhouse. They often had rocks.
What did I do to deserve this?
It’s Autumn, It’s my birthday, and I don’t remember my mothers laugh, or my fathers smile. All I know is the dying corn and the caw of crows. The sting of rocks and the back of my grandmothers hand.