• Survivor
    The hairs prickled on the back of my neck and a knot grew in the pit of my stomach at the sounds of the driveway and the thundering steps, Aunt Bessie as she climbed the front stairs in the dark. The idea of a terrifying death sliced through my heart like a cold, sharp blade. What kind and responsible parents would leave their daughter with a possible killer?!!
    Aunt Mary, Uncle Marty and Grandpa all died in Aunt Bessie’s care. Mum said one had an accident, one a crippling disease and Grandpa of old age. But I wasn’t going to take any chances with the monstrous Aunt Bessie. I knew I was going to have to be alert to survive the night.
    Then, the door flew open and a cold gust of wind rattled through the house. A definite sign of death! Oh no. My nightmare would soon begin and turn into reality.
    Her first attempt on my life was barely seconds into the visit as her large arms grasped me, nearly cutting off my air supply. I looked at my parents with desperation, but did they get it? No! They just smiled and left.
    Aunt Bessie cleverly brought dinner with her but it was no ordinary dinner. It contained mountains of awful, over cook broccoli and burnt mushrooms? And it also came with old stew with lumpy gravy. She said it was to save Mum from cooking, but it was obviously the second attempt of my life.
    The danger mounted as she began serving … What Charlie’s Angels would do in a situation like this. I had to think fast I slipped into the shadows of the lounge room and quickly made a phone call to my friend, Jo.
    “Please ring in a few minutes and keep my babysitter on the phone for as long as possible. Ok? Thanks.”
    I tried to avoid her dinner a.s.a.p. Then thank goodness, the phone rang and as she went to answer it I wasted no time disposing the poisonous meal before she returned. A narrow escape.
    Just as I thought the night wouldn’t get any worse, Aunt Bessie announced, with an evil grin, that it was bed time and also a special bed time book. A bed time story? Horror of all horrors! No amount of explaining could make her understand that thirteen year olds don’t go to bed at 7:30 and that I could read by myself.
    Her failed attempts on my life had now led her to resort to death by slow torture. I squirmed painfully in bed as she read her favourite bed time story “Famous Five Go Camping” in a slow, boring voice.

    When I thought I could endure no more and almost welcomed death, I heard the sound gravel on the driveway and the sound of Mum’s high heels on the front stairs and knew that… I was a survivor.