Migrants (bp coyle)

‘God I hate you!!!’ I screamed at them. ‘I hate both of you!’ I stamped my foot like a four year old, though I am fourteen and should have been embarrassed at my behaviour.

‘Sweetie,’ Dad said in a soothing tone. ‘This is the chance of a lifetime. So few people are lucky enough to get it. This is a chance to start again. A chance to live.’

‘Look around you girl,’ Mom’s voice was not so placating. ‘This world is dying. Look at how we live. The poverty, the pollution. To stay here is to die. Slowly and surely.’

‘Yeah,’ I said cynically, ‘I’ve read the literature. The propaganda. Truth is it’s you who’ve failed. You failed and now you want to run away to a new planet to have a second chance. You want to ruin my life to make up for your own…’ The killer word wouldn’t come. ‘Failure,’ I settled on, feeling disappointed in myself.

‘You’ll understand in time,’ Dad assured me. ‘When you are in a clean place, breathing clean air instead of poison.’

‘But…’ there was so much to say I found it difficult to begin. ‘This is home…’ I offered. Pathetically. Truthfully.