I am Child Z

Chapter Two - Between Life And Death

Chapter Two - Between Life And Death

My real title is not Child Z. I do have a proper name. Actually; I have quite a nice name - and it's Zara - Miss Zara Renee Coleman. I'm 15 years old. I was born on 20th January 1998 in Bow, East London. My father was Robert Coleman, 39 years old - a 6 foot Englishman with short blond hair and gentle blue eyes. My mother, Helena Coleman, was a 40 year old Jamaican woman - strong penetrating brown eyes, thick black braids down to her waist, authentic Usain Bolt accent and a swagger that put Mick Jagger to shame. My parents were the best parents a child could ever have. They loved and doted upon me and supported me in every aspect of my life. My parents were everything to me. They were my constants; my rock. My foundation.

It's a fairly typical story how my parents got together and produced me. Mum and dad met in a local supermarket in 1989, where they worked together as Checkout Managers on the shop floor. Mum and dad dated for a while and then fell madly in love - and soon they married and bought a home together in Bow. It must've been a blissful time for them both back then when life was beautiful and everything made sense. When I came into the world, their love was complete - and a picture perfect family sprung into existence.

Zara, the name my wonderful parents chose for me at birth, means princess. Mum said I looked as majestic and as enchanting as one when I was born. Skin the colour of rich resplendent honey, intense hazel eyes that embedded into the soul, neat black curls as soft as cotton and a cute button nose, were to die for. My parents worshipped me from the day of my nascence, and growing up, I was given everything. They spoilt me rotten and pampered me like an aristocrat. I had the best life a child could ever have, and the most caring and giving parents on this earth. But now my family has been torn apart so violently, ripped at the seams in the cruellest most heart-breaking way imaginable. If someone thought of attributing princess to my character at the age of 15, they should think again. Calling me a princess now is like naming an orange a plum - it's pretty ridiculous!

I am hardly a princess. I am more a damaged spirit, trying to pick up the pieces of my life from the gutter - and find rational explanations for the anguish I've experienced in recent years. I would be very surprised to find any princesses like me, even nowadays when European royals are getting younger and younger and parade a hip fresh public persona. Besides, no princesses I've ever heard of have long dark interweaving tresses hanging from their heads as I do, and speak like Queen Latifah in Bringin' Down The House. I don't think the world is ready for that kind of princess for at least another five hundred years!

The last time I felt regal was February 2010 - when grandma taught me how to use three sets of knives, forks and spoons at a family dinner party. Grandma Dana, on dad's side, a lovely caring well-dressed woman from the countryside, shared her knowledge concerning table manners and other forms of lady etiquette. Dana had an unusual accent. It was a countryside burr - a friendly Devon twang. When Grandma Dana was alive, mum, dad and I used to travel to Devon for holidays and stay in grandma's house - I really enjoyed us spending time together as a kin - laughing, joking, playing games, going down to the beach, swimming in the sea and taking a ride with my family in the boat gran owned. I remember those happy times so fondly in my mind. They were the jauntiest of my life. Grandma Dana cooked traditional English dishes - like toad in the hole and bangers and mash. And although she didn't use lots of herbs and spices like mum did at home, she seasoned the food impeccably. It tasted great. I adored visiting the Devon countryside to see gran and eat her wonderful cuisine.

But one crisp morning in early March 2010, on a turbulent Sunday morning, grandma was trembling with ferocious anger - she wasn't thinking straight. She had had a dreadful argument with dad at the breakfast table concerning the serious financial difficulties she was encountering, and she was not in the right frame of mind.