Take my advice, By Laura Carroll, age 17.
You’d always told me about how much you’d loved the pier, especially at sunset, with its orange sky, crying seagulls and steady lapping of waves. You’d liked the calm atmosphere, the soothing, balmy breeze that came in off the sea. It was your place, our place. And now it’s your place forever. I’ve never noticed how long the drop was before as I stare into the swirling water which conceals the rocks below. It’s a long fall, yet over in a second. ‘Take my advice,’ you’d told me the first day you’d brought me here. ‘Don’t go close to the edge. It’s too dangerous.’ Yet here I am now, toes peeing over, balancing delicately. My balance has improved since I was six, I’m sure you’d be glad to hear. How many times did you warn me not to walk on that wall? The same amount of times I ignored you. You’re strong arms comforted me that day as we waited for the ambulance, and you assured me I was going to be okay. But I wasn’t – I was broken. Even after all of these years, my leg is the only thing that has healed properly. My train of thought is interrupted by a yelp nearby. I look on fondly, and slightly envious, as a young boy holds a trout triumphantly above his head his dad clapping him on the back proudly. I remember the day I was that young boy, insisting I was going to catch something. ‘There’s no point’ you’d advised. ‘It’s too late now, all the fish are gone.’ But I was persistent, and twenty minutes later, my persistence paid dividends. How I wish I could
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