I am untouchable. I am serene. I am safe.
You are ugly.
No, she tried in desperation to shut those thoughts out. They were tragic, tragic thoughts. Ugly.
Laura scrunched her brown eyes tightly shut in an attempt to block the ill-fated, hurtful words from crawling deeper from her mind, to existence and then further to reality.
The long, deep scar lay stretched from under her left eye through to the very edge of her bony, pointed chin.
It was a painful reminder that inflicted terror every time she saw her own reflection. For this very reason, you scarcely saw Laura look into a mirror.
The fire had been horrific, as it tore through Laura's small village.
It took nearly everything she cared most about - her house, her Da, her hopes, her dreams - all gone.
Laura herself was lucky to have survived, but not without consequences.
It once got all too much for her as she stood in front of her mirror, a tear trickling slowly down her cheek.
Her mother had said to her, "It is best not to dwell on what is not the truth."
But she was wrong. It was the truth. Laura was ugly.
Abruptly she opened her eyes, as if awakening from an uncannily lifelike nightmare.
She was there when she woke, lying on her lush and flourishing patch of Scottish flora, just beneath the blooming silver birch tree.
Laura's gaze automatically drove upward to the long and hugely expansive opal-blue sky.
Without realising, Laura began step one: counting the clouds. Thirteen.
Her ultimate lucky number, because, like her, no-one believed in it.
Step two: find the shapes.
Today, nature was offering a slightly depressing selection of a plump bunny rabbit with only half a tail, a distorted mother duck with three little mother ducklings trailing behind her, and if you squinted hard and turned your head to just the right angle, possibly a bulky human man waving.
What was truly fascinating was that Laura could close her eyes for what she had timed to be no more than a measly minute and when she re-opened them, she would have a whole new arrangement of clouds to study.
This is what she did.
As soon as the final escape bell sounded at Southern Central College at 3pm, Laura would flee its ghastly peril and make a rushed beeline out of her small school, across the full length of her tiny village of Rendayre and head through the rugged terrain of Eastern Side birch forest, until she arrived at the top of the tallest hill.
At this point, Laura would almost need breathing apparatus to continue, but onwards she would struggle.
Nearly crawling from exhaustion, she would lie down at the foot of the hill.
It fitted perfectly in line with the firm imprint of her body.
She'd fold her arms across her chest and for the first time in 13 minutes and 13 seconds, she would breathe.
That is what Laura did.
After many countless hours of cloud gazing, Laura would leave the peace and serenity to drag her sorry self home in time to prepare for the next torturous six hours of school.
• By Alannah Smyth, Year 10, Cromwell College
You are ugly.
No, she tried in desperation to shut those thoughts out. They were tragic, tragic thoughts. Ugly.
Laura scrunched her brown eyes tightly shut in an attempt to block the ill-fated, hurtful words from crawling deeper from her mind, to existence and then further to reality.
The long, deep scar lay stretched from under her left eye through to the very edge of her bony, pointed chin.
It was a painful reminder that inflicted terror every time she saw her own reflection. For this very reason, you scarcely saw Laura look into a mirror.
The fire had been horrific, as it tore through Laura's small village.
It took nearly everything she cared most about - her house, her Da, her hopes, her dreams - all gone.
Laura herself was lucky to have survived, but not without consequences.
It once got all too much for her as she stood in front of her mirror, a tear trickling slowly down her cheek.
Her mother had said to her, "It is best not to dwell on what is not the truth."
But she was wrong. It was the truth. Laura was ugly.
Abruptly she opened her eyes, as if awakening from an uncannily lifelike nightmare.
She was there when she woke, lying on her lush and flourishing patch of Scottish flora, just beneath the blooming silver birch tree.
Laura's gaze automatically drove upward to the long and hugely expansive opal-blue sky.
Without realising, Laura began step one: counting the clouds. Thirteen.
Her ultimate lucky number, because, like her, no-one believed in it.
Step two: find the shapes.
Today, nature was offering a slightly depressing selection of a plump bunny rabbit with only half a tail, a distorted mother duck with three little mother ducklings trailing behind her, and if you squinted hard and turned your head to just the right angle, possibly a bulky human man waving.
What was truly fascinating was that Laura could close her eyes for what she had timed to be no more than a measly minute and when she re-opened them, she would have a whole new arrangement of clouds to study.
This is what she did.
As soon as the final escape bell sounded at Southern Central College at 3pm, Laura would flee its ghastly peril and make a rushed beeline out of her small school, across the full length of her tiny village of Rendayre and head through the rugged terrain of Eastern Side birch forest, until she arrived at the top of the tallest hill.
At this point, Laura would almost need breathing apparatus to continue, but onwards she would struggle.
Nearly crawling from exhaustion, she would lie down at the foot of the hill.
It fitted perfectly in line with the firm imprint of her body.
She'd fold her arms across her chest and for the first time in 13 minutes and 13 seconds, she would breathe.
That is what Laura did.
After many countless hours of cloud gazing, Laura would leave the peace and serenity to drag her sorry self home in time to prepare for the next torturous six hours of school.
• By Alannah Smyth, Year 10, Cromwell College
