I run through small, creaking wooden door at the back of our small little cottage, out of breath. I was too un-fit. I had only run from the top of the garden to here, the short distance only a couple of meters in length.

My already curly ginger hair was more tangled than ever. I blame the bushes.

I turn away from the glare of the sun through the window, my ice blue eyes squinting in the rising light, removing my light jacket and bunging it into the clothes basket. It was caked in mud. So were my boots. Oh, well. My mother will have to kill me later.

I manoeuvre my way through the cramped hallway, tripping multiple times on miscellaneous items such as shoes, dog chews, food bowls and feeding bottles for the lambs. I really do not want to know what is buried under my dog's blankets in the corner. I shiver in disgust, picking my way towards the kitchen, suddenly ravenous.

Just before I step onto the black-tiled floor of the kitchen, I kick my boots into the piles of shoes that haven't been worn in years, mine taking up the majority of the pile. I guess I'll never see them again.

My socks squelch on my feet, the once bright yellow fabric now a muddy brown. Peeling them off my small feet, I chuck them to the floor as well.

The lemon-yellow walls change to olive green as I step onto the cold, black-tiled floor of our little country-kitchen, the pine island taking up most of the space in the centre, surrounded by five bar stools. I never really understood the reason for the fifth one, it was always empty beside me. No-one sat in it. I suppose it was an unspoken rule of some-sort. I knew there was a reason, but it was buried in a haze, deep in the depths of the back of my mind.

The copper frying and sauce-pans hang from a wrack on the ceiling above the island, worn and knocked-about. They had suffered years of my mother's abuse. But her food was delicious. I had to admit that detail.

Shelves and cupboards lined the walls, the gas stove pride of place in the middle of the counters lined with recipe books, stacked unsteadily, all of them well-used, each recipe had been created and eaten at least three times each.

I eye my target, the target that stands tall and proud at the other end of the kitchen, gleaming, silver, cold and unresponsive.

I fall to my hands and knees, hiding behind the counter as I crawl, slowly but surely towards the fridge that houses my food, my ears perked for any noise, any movement, any rustle that would tell me somebody, or something that was approaching. My eyes were totally focused on the fridge as I draw closer, bit by bit, making sure I was hidden from view behind the wooden counter top.

When I come close to the gap between the island and the fridge-freezer, I peer around the corner for any people that may spoil this blissful reunion. The coast was clear. I sigh in relief. At last. We were reunited.

I open the freezer door, cautious to not make any noise to alert the monsters.

Scanning the contents, my eyes land on the precious tub. Mine.

Scrabbling for the ice-cream, pushing the frozen chilli and Bolognese out of the way, I freeze. I had made too much noise. I had alerted the beasts.

Not bothering to be quiet, I grab the chocolate heaven and begin to rush out of there, not bothering to grab a spoon, I could eat it with my hands, right? Was that acceptable in societies' eyes? It was my birthday after all.

I look up.

I instantly regret it.

No no no no no!

This wasn't meant to happen. I had planned it perfectly. Well, I thought I did. Looking back, I'm not so sure.

My father had caught me red-handed. Or red-haired. One of the two.

"Well, well, well," He smirks, pushing himself off the door frame, "What do we have here, eh?"

"Emmm......" I trail off, not able to dream up a suitable excuse, "It's my birthday?......" My voice rises an octave.

He raises an eyebrow, blue eyes twinkling with humour.

He was now standing in front of me, swamping my now twelve-year old frame.

I shrink back, there was no escaping punishment now.

I wait for the non-physical blow, pressing myself closer to the counter.

The punishment never comes.

Instead, I am swamped by a gargantuan teddy-bear.

"Happy Birthday, Ashy-Boo!" He exclaims.

I melt into his warm hug.

"Thanks, Dad," I murmur, my voice muffled by his woolly blue jumper, matching his eyes.

I feel another pair of arms surround me, more delicate and feminine this time, and I know that it's my mother.

I turn in the tangle of arms to set the melting ice-cream on the bench so I can turn to my mother as my dad's arms release me.

Before I can greet her, a bundle of colourful clothes and skin throws itself at me, knocking the air right out of my chest as I struggle to catch her.

Nicole's small arms snake their way around my neck as her legs hook around my waist, hugging me like a koala bear.

"Nicole!" I verbalize, shocked, "Get off me!"

She reluctantly climbs off, her six-year old body landing on her feet, her green eyes gleaming, dark curls dancing as she jumps up and down on the spot, teeny hands clamped over her mouth firmly.

"She looks as though she wants to say something..." I state, turning to my mother as Nicole nods viciously in the corner of my eye, desperate to speak.

"Yes," She nods, "Happy birthday Ash-" She is cut off by young sibling, who, it seems, can't keep her small mouth shut.

"We're going on a picnic in the meadow and mummy made a chocolate cake and cookies and sandwiches and cupcakes and we are all gonna sing happy birthday to you and in the meadow, we are gonna stay under the big willow tree cus we know it's your favourite place and I probably shouldn't have said all of that but anyway I know..." she blurts, her voice diminishing as she rambles incoherent words to herself.

I rotate my body 180° to stare at my parents, my jaw on the floor.

Realising this, I shut my mouth before speaking.

"Really?!" I squeak.

They nod in agreement, knowing why I was so excited.

I loved the willow tree.

I loved the willow tree with its weeping canopies, so green and fresh, the sunlight tainting them gold as it shone through.

Its twisted, ancient trunk that reached to the sky until exploding into hundreds of little limbs, veins, each holding thousands of soft leaves and buds bursting with life, and in autumn, slowly tuning different shades of fire, shifting and glowing from a distance, falling to give way for the new generation of soft petal and fronds every year in an endless cycle without fail.

I loved all of it.

And I rarely got to see it.

I was forbidden to travel up that hill without one of my parents.

Yet, every time I asked them if we could go, I got one of two responses.

Either they would change the subject completely or I would get a blatant answer 'Not yet' and a stony face.

I didn't dare disobey them.

That is the reason I am grinning ear to ear as I lug a picnic basket towards the ancient form of the willow tree in the distance, the chocolate ice-cream long forgotten and melted in the sunlit kitchen counter, and the farthest memory in my mind as others bubble to the surface, memories that disappear as I try to reach them before I hear a familiar voice in my head, a voice that I loathe.

And a voice that I now block easily.

Word Count: 1287

This is the first edited chapter of this book, and I really do prefer this version. The last one was incredibly cringey.

If the comments before the 9th March 2017 are messed up or don't make sense, it is because of the editing, and I'm sorry for any inconvenience but this version will be much better.

Thanks My Little Willows!!!!! (Thanks Kina-Dolphin for the suggestion of nicknames!!!)