Girl - Chapter 1

The rain pounds down onto the tin roof of a small house on an insignificant street in Sydney. There is a flash of lightning, that illuminates the city better than any street light ever could. A few seconds later there is a tremendous boom.

In the tin-roofed house, I sit on the floor, in the corner of my lounge-room, with dozens of lighted candles littering the floor in-front of me. In my hand I hold a torch. I point the beam of light at the old grandfather clock that stands majestically on the other side of the room. The hour hand is on the twelve, the minute hand is on the one, and the second hand is between the eight and nine.

12:05:43am.

The power has been out for three hours, twenty-five minutes and four seconds.

There is another flash of lightning. I whimper. I drop my torch and cover my ears with my hands. The explosion of sound rattles the walls of my small house, and drowns out the screams that escape my lips.

I shakily pick up my torch and shine it onto the clock. The hour hand is on the twelve - slightly to the right, the minute hand is just passed the one and the second hand is on the two.

12:06:10am.

I have been sitting in the corner for three hours, fifty-two minutes and two seconds.

There is another flash of lightning, I drop my torch and cover my ears in preparation for the ensuing crash.

I do not budge.

Fifteen minutes and twenty-three seconds later: the power comes on and then back off again. I do not budge.

Forty-two minutes and fifty-five seconds after that: the phone rings. I do not budge.

The last sounds of thunder, disappear twenty minutes and thirty-six seconds later.

1:25:29am.

I get to my feet and - holding my torch out in front of me - sprint to the bathroom to throw-up.

The ringing phone wakes me up from my slumber. The flashing digital clock next to my bed reads 8:40:39pm. I groggily get to my feet and stumble out of my room.

“Hello?” I mumble, after the preceding beep beep beep that indicates a long distance call.

“Sissy, it’s Melanie,” the person says.

“Mel?!” I exclaim. “What time is it?”

“Late . . . or early,” Melanie replies. “But it’s not important. Sissy, you have to come home . . . Mavis is dying.”