We Don't Talk About the Garden Shed

Sitting at the bottom of the garden is everyone's little box of shame. That small, wooden structure with its cobwebs, its toys and its strange junk that nobody seems to want to claim.
The garden shed.

Each one has its own story. The creation of a robot, built from parts in an overly-priced magazine. The patio that will never be lain. The rusting bikes of that family who are always complaining about the price of petrol. But my shed is different. We don't talk about it. Not because of the UPE (Unfinished Project Embarrassment) or even the OUB (One Use Barbeque) but because of The Incident. One Tuesday evening, Mum was writing a letter of complaint to the grocers and Dad was baking for the Church fete, I got bored. Yes, bored. Blue Peter's origami Barrack Obama had grown frustrating and the algebraic equations set by Ms O'Brian were no more inviting, so I wondered into the garden. The apple trees were bursting with fruit and the grass was overgrown. I picked up a disused, moulding cricket bat and walked through our personal jungle, dragging it beside me. I saw a pigeon fling itself from one of the trees, squawking manically, and noticed something odd. We have a shed? I ducked under the laden branches and walked the seven paces to the shed door. It was pretty big. It covered about the width of our garden but I couldn't see how far it went back. I rapped my small fist on the door and only got a hollow echo in return. The back of my neck began to prickle and my arms went cold. Why didn't I know we had a shed?

After about five minutes I plucked up the courage to try the door. It wouldn't budge. Why was it locked? The only door Mum and Dad ever locked was the one to their bedroom, for when they were doing 'Special Prayers'. I took a step back and tried to determine the distance between the floor and the window. I can reach that, I thought, I just need a kitchen chair. I walked back to the kitchen, dumping the bat by the back door. Dad was still baking his Victoria Sponge.
"Can I use the chair?" I asked.
"Yes, Ben" he replied sharply, "Just don't take up any space in the kitchen, I'm trying to bake". I knew Dad was serious when he used the B word. His ultimate dream was to get on the Great British Bake Off. I walked down to the shed, lugging the chair in front of me. I placed it in front of the grimy window and stepped up. I leant in, straining my eyes to see something in the dark shed. Nothing. Perhaps I need to be higher? What else could I use.

I went to step down.

My foot slipped.

My head hit the floor.

It took them three hours to notice I was missing. Then one hour to find me. By the time they did there were already bugs all over me. The blood had dried a crown in my blonde hair, a halo in the dirt around me. They cried, of course. But then they realised what had happened. I was moved into the shed but now I couldn't see what was really inside. The tools and the boxes which surrounded me. They watered the ground I had lain on for so many hours and then went to bed.

When people ask they say, "He's with his Aunt, we just can't cope sometimes." Mum still writes her letters and Dad still bakes his cakes. But they never, ever talk about the garden shed.

Oliver Pilcher. Any criticism would be great! Thanks! :D