Iluka

Rhonda Aron

Winner of third prize in the Eastern Writers Group's Biggest Little Short Story competition for 2009

Ya won't believe this but a Wingamully kid was shot dead today. By the police. So the area's gone crazy, again. Me and auntie was watchin' tellie when mum came runnin' in.

"The young constable thought Zac was reachin' for a gun."

"Was he?" I asked, sorta shocked.

"No, lluka. He was just foolin' around. God, his poor family."

Mum suddenly burst into tears. "He was only sixteen."

"Bloody pigs!" screams auntie. "If they did that to my boy I'd tear them limb from limb."

I tell ya, no one doubts that.

Anyhoo I feel a bit confused. Zac was five years older than me, and a right bully. And there were plenty of times I wished he was dead, but still...

"What'll they do to the shooter?" I asked.

"Oh the piggies will have an enquiry and let him off," snarls auntie, lightin' a ciggie.

"Prob'ly promote him."

Mum gently brushed my cheek.

"But at the end of the day he'll havta face his maker. Innocent or not."

"Jesus-friggin'-Christ woman, doya still believe in that old claptrap?"

Auntie fell out with the Almighty a whiles back. Reckon they didn't see eye-to-eye over her temper. And that Christian forgiveness thingie.

"Better to have faith, than not. I'll pray for both their souls," says mum. She sure is the forgivin' sort, ain't she.

Later I climbed up on the garden's mossy wall and tucked myself away from pryin' eyes, just behind the broken lattice held together by the devilish ivy. I watched a carpet of caterpillars move as though they was one big critter, tryin' to scare off the hungry birds. Then I spotted a dero rummagin' through the overflowin' bins, searchin' empty bottles for dreggies.

Soon cousin Bruiser snuck up on the ol' man and stole his ciggies, so he started chasin' the little thief. Of course the young rat did the usual Wingamully cry: "Help! A dirty pedi's after me", and took off. Kids do that quite a bit 'round here. But usually they pick on the drunkies when they're sleepin' one off, and roll 'em - as if the homeless ain't havin' a shitty enough life. Don't seem fair do it, and I'm not sure why but it got me thinkin' 'bout reincarnation. Reckon if dead Zac was gonna do a rerun he should be a dero for a while. Least that'd be some sorta justice.

I know I seen all this a squillion times but now I felt sick, icky like. So I went back to watchin' that wrigglin' mass, which spun me into a daydream. There I was, squelched inside a big ugly cocoon, tryin' dead hard to fight my way out. Itchin' to be a beautiful butterfly. And it made me wonder if butterflies ever dreamed they was people.

Anyways, if I could, I'd uncurl my new wings and flittity-flit high into the sky. And head off for somewhere far, far away. And never return to Wingamully. Not ever.