Wild Girl

I have a huge paisley chiffon bandana, that a one-time babysitter
forgot, tied round my head, like I am an apprentice pirate. I'm dressed
in my playing clothes - old muddy trainers, ripped jeans and layers of
hand-me-down sweatshirts - and I am playing. I'm in the base in the
field behind our house, by myself. It's a small circle of young trees,
in the corner that's made by the road and the fence of a house. The
floor is amazing. The man who lives in the house dumps the cuttings
from his pine trees there, so you can sit and bounce, or break off a
twig and crush it on your fingers to get a green heady aroma that masks
the smell of cigarette butts. I am ten, and I'm being the wild girl
that lives in a bush. Two kids from the road next to ours walk their
dog every morning past the base, and so I get up early. I want to
convince them that I live here. My clothes are dirty enough, and so are
my face, hair and neck. I even have sandwiches tied in a handkerchief
to the end of a long stick - lettuce and salad cream. I squat on my
haunches at the opening of the base and wait for them to come by. I am
sullen and unfriendly, vicious and savage. They stare at me as they do
every morning, and are scared of me. When they have passed I retreat
inside my place to eat my sandwiches - soggy, but sandwiches right for
playing. They taste a bit funny, from being in the handkerchief, but
foil or clingfilm would look like I lived somewhere, and I'm not
supposed to, am I? There are brambles pricking my back, but I don't
mind that cos they're everywhere round these fields. Some have
blackberries which I use sometimes to stain my face, so I look more
wild. They're too bitter to eat, small and mean.
Yesterday me and Sam played a game of being stone age people,
pretending to eat flints and making stone weapons. My name was Kit, and
she was my father who needed me. The earth had been ploughed and was
just right for stone age - they didn't have rapeseed or cabbages then,
I'm sure of it. I want to play again with Sam, but not now, 'cos this
is my place and my game and anyone else will spoil it.
A car goes by occasionally - sometimes I peep out, or hide, and maybe
even jump out into the opening to scare people and show them I am a
savage.

Sophie sits in her university accommodation room, trying to dredge up
old forgotten memories for a writing exercise. She can hear a group of
drunken people somewhere on her floor, singing along to Abba songs very
loudly. She feels a strong rush of rage, and clenches her jaw and hands
as she mutters 'stupid fucking idiots. Shut up!'. She wishes she had
the guts to go and knock on the door, and shout at them to stop
disturbing her. But she doesn't want to leave her room. She is
comfortable, sitting on the bed with her back against the wall, her
room in a terrible state of disarray. She looks around, trying to
ignore the noises of wasted laughter. The unwashed coffee cups, bits of
paper, and clothes slung here and there make her feel real. She has an
unexpected shearing sensation of self-awareness. An outcast, one
against the world, in her perfect room. She lights a cigarette and
turns Jools Holland up, idly forcing her foot up in the air at an
obtuse angle, to examine it. Pretty. She imagines the camera sweeping
down from the ceiling by the window, laying bare her ferociously lonely
bohemian existence.