A/N: CHECK OUT MY 5SOS FANFIC "VINTAGE MIRACLE" I PROMISE YOU MY WRITING STYLE HAS CHANGED DRASTICALLY SINCE.
You know that one song that you absolutely love? It’s got a catchy tune, incredible lyrics, and, above all, you relate to it. Everybody has a favourite song like that. Perhaps it’s a Taylor Swift song- tons of people claim that Taylor’s songs are based on their diary entries, don’t they? Or it could be a song by Demi Lovato. Who wouldn’t be blown away by those amazing vocals and powerful messages?
Yeah, everybody has a song that they love. Include me. Especially me. And in my case, that song happens to have been sung by five gorgeous, talented boys.
Ladies and gents, I’m talking about One Direction.
“What are you doing?”
I glanced up at my best friend, Hayley Robinson, as I finished rolling up the thin sheet of paper in my hands. Smiling mysteriously, I winked at her and popped the note into an empty, brittle, glass bottle, before shoving the cork down the bottle’s mouth, completely encapsulating the note.
“For God’s sake, are you actually sending a note in a bottle?” Hayley giggled.
“No,” I laughed in reply. “I’m going to bury it in the sand.”
Cradling the bottle in my hands, Hayley and I fell silent as the sun started to disappear below the horizon. Its rays sent colourful beams of light in all directions, until the sky was painted with the most dazzling combination of colours I’d ever seen- purple faded into pink, which blended into blue, which somehow became green, followed by yellow, orange and red. I stared at the sky in awe, utterly mesmerised and too stunned for words.
“Hey,” Hayley whispered after a while, her voice slicing through the tranquillity of the moment. “If you really want to bury that bottle, you should do it now. I think we’re going to have to leave soon.”
I sighed; she was right.
“Come with me?” I asked, standing up from the rock I’d been perched on and dusting my pants to get the little grains of golden sand off. I gripped the bottle in my left hand and extended my right, helping Hayley up.
We walked around the beach for a few minutes, scanning the shore and trying to decide on where to bury the bottle. At last, we stopped at a spot about eight metres away from the sea and squatted down to bury the bottle. Hayley and I scooped up sand and shoved them to a side, digging a hole. When it was deep enough, I placed the bottle in the hole and covered it with sand, until it was completely hidden. Hayley pranced around the area and collected some seashells, which she scattered on top of the sand.
We sat staring at the spot we’d buried the bottle. If Hayley was wondering what I’d written in the note, she did not ask, and I was grateful for how she respected my privacy. After a few moments, we got up and walked towards the car park, where we were supposed to assemble to board the coach. Even in the distance, I could see the silhouettes of about ten figures looming about the car park. We were late.
“We should hurry,” I urged Hayley, and we ran hastily towards the silhouettes.
“There you are,” Mrs Gallagher heaved a huge sigh of relief as we emerged from the darkness. “Right,” she consulted her clipboard, “Hayley Rory Robinson and Magenta Skye Mitchell have arrived” – she made a few ticks and looked at us – “Right, get on the coach!”
Hayley and I boarded the coach and sat at the back. The return journey was quiet, as everybody was too exhausted to speak. I took this time to reflect on my day. This was, perhaps, one of the most perfect days I’d had in a very long time.
After about twenty minutes of driving, the coach finally pulled over as a house – slightly larger than normal – towered above us. Everybody filed out of the coach, down onto the concrete pavement, and towards the broad, polished black gates that shielded the house. Behind the gates was a path that led to the front door, and around the path was a well-maintained garden. Pots of flowers and rows of various vegetables like lettuce and tomatoes lined the garden. It was beautiful.
Mrs Gallagher stood in front of all of us. She whipped out a silver key and proceeded to unlock the gates. Within seconds, the gates were sliding open, and the ten of us trotted behind her, towards the house. As she whipped up a second key and unlocked the front door, my eyes flickered to the sign above it. I’d seen the sign billions of times, but, no matter what, I couldn’t shake off the unpleasant feeling that filled me each time I looked at it. It wasn’t that I hated the place- the people there were nice enough and everyday was fairly pleasant. No, what I hated was that that place was my reality, though I never stopped wishing that it was a dream.
There, engraved in silver into a smooth, black, marble plate, were the words that defined who I was- who I was, but certainly not who I wanted to be.
Gallagher Foster Home.