My sister has always been shy, introverted, nervous, timid...Whatever you want to call it.
What i call it Selective Mutism.
She held on to my hand, tight, afraid to lose me within the waves of young children. Laughter ricocheted off the old stone walls of the school, along with excited chatter and screams of joy. They were all care-free children, not a worry in the world. For a moment I reminisced of my own childhood, the mischievous mind of a seven year old and it's endless imagination, not having to think of anything or anyone, only plots and plans of the future.
The squeeze of a tiny hand brought me back to reality with an earth shattering crash. I looked down into the frightened, bright, blue eyes. Tears threatened to spill down her face and i could tell that the thought of crying here, in front of everybody, was making her want to cry more. She shook with nerves, her eyes darted across the playground but daren't meet anybody else's. I knew she wanted to run away, far away, anywhere she could be alone. Roots emerged from the concrete, twisting relentless around her ankles, wrapping themselves around her fragile body, making it impossible to move an inch. I could see this, and she could see it too, but nobody else could. The pain of seeing her this way was unbearable, but unavoidable. I gave her hand a light squeeze back and took a long stride towards the entrance, she slowly and reluctantly followed.
At the large, oak doors stood her teacher, Mrs Byrne, dressed in jeans, a floaty pink top and a black cardigan. I liked Mrs Byrne, she always looked so casual and laid-back and she had the sweetest smile i had ever seen. Her stawberry blonde hair was tied in a messy bun, with thin locks of hair falling out.