Champaign
Champaign is just a twist on Champagne
- Joined
- Sep 23, 2016
- Messages
- 332
- Reaction score
- 675
IT WAS school holidays and the Thorburn family had packed the car for a quick camping trip to the picturesque Atkinson Dam, an hour or so inland from Brisbane.
The extended family was there. Aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents. They lined up tents in the shade of gums, under the gaze of cackling kookaburras.
They took turns behind the ski boat, laughing as they tumbled into the water. Then, as the sun dropped below the horizon, they gathered on folding chairs to eat dinner. It was a good day, a fun day. But for one family member, the further the night progressed, the more uneasy she began to feel.
She’d been allocated a tent with the teenage Thorburn boys – Trent and Josh. Trent, the younger of the two, was a couple of years her junior. She felt uneasy around Trent. There’d been an incident a few years earlier, something that had made her feel uncomfortable around him. She’d never told anyone. She hadn’t wanted to cause trouble in the family.
She’d tried to position herself away from him on the queen-sized blow-up mattress the three of them were sharing. But he’d made a point of moving next to her. So she’d insisted on a head-to-toe arrangement.
She fell asleep that way, with her feet by his head, and vice-versa. But some time after her breathing had slowed into that telltale steady rhythm, he’d moved. When she woke he was lying behind her, his face close to the back of her head, his arms stretched around to rest on her stomach, before sliding down, a millimetre at a time, slowly, hoping not to wake her.
She moved suddenly, as though she’d stirred. And he paused, catching his breath, before starting again. He assaulted her then, and she moved again, hoping he would stop. Eventually he did. He got up and left the tent.
She waited a few seconds and unzipped the canvas, determined she’d be gone when he returned.
She walked away, in the opposite direction, watching as he walked to the campsite’s toilet block. Minutes passed as she waited for him to go back to the tent. When he did, she crept back to the family campsite and settled into one of the folding chairs. She sat there all night, waiting for morning. It was some time later, the camping trip a distant memory, that someone told her the Thorburn family would take in a foster child. A young girl. She worried for that girl, whoever she was. Maybe she saw it coming. The tragedy was that others didn’t.
The extended family was there. Aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents. They lined up tents in the shade of gums, under the gaze of cackling kookaburras.
They took turns behind the ski boat, laughing as they tumbled into the water. Then, as the sun dropped below the horizon, they gathered on folding chairs to eat dinner. It was a good day, a fun day. But for one family member, the further the night progressed, the more uneasy she began to feel.
She’d been allocated a tent with the teenage Thorburn boys – Trent and Josh. Trent, the younger of the two, was a couple of years her junior. She felt uneasy around Trent. There’d been an incident a few years earlier, something that had made her feel uncomfortable around him. She’d never told anyone. She hadn’t wanted to cause trouble in the family.
She’d tried to position herself away from him on the queen-sized blow-up mattress the three of them were sharing. But he’d made a point of moving next to her. So she’d insisted on a head-to-toe arrangement.
She fell asleep that way, with her feet by his head, and vice-versa. But some time after her breathing had slowed into that telltale steady rhythm, he’d moved. When she woke he was lying behind her, his face close to the back of her head, his arms stretched around to rest on her stomach, before sliding down, a millimetre at a time, slowly, hoping not to wake her.
She moved suddenly, as though she’d stirred. And he paused, catching his breath, before starting again. He assaulted her then, and she moved again, hoping he would stop. Eventually he did. He got up and left the tent.
She waited a few seconds and unzipped the canvas, determined she’d be gone when he returned.
She walked away, in the opposite direction, watching as he walked to the campsite’s toilet block. Minutes passed as she waited for him to go back to the tent. When he did, she crept back to the family campsite and settled into one of the folding chairs. She sat there all night, waiting for morning. It was some time later, the camping trip a distant memory, that someone told her the Thorburn family would take in a foster child. A young girl. She worried for that girl, whoever she was. Maybe she saw it coming. The tragedy was that others didn’t.
