The streets surrounding Darlinghurst Road, Kings Cross
, comma were encapsulated by the scent of thyme-filled turkey sizzling on aluminium foil and dazzling hues of green and red. Moderately sheltered, a mother laid motionless, in a silent embrace with her only daughter, Grace. A windswept sleeping bag, their only security from the sodden concrete beneath.
This sentence isn't formed properly - you can put a "was" in place of the comma for it to make sense, but otherwise it's two dependent clauses pushed together so it doesn't make perfect grammatical sense, although I understand your intentions with the sentence In spite of the fear and squalor of her new life, Grace’s innocent exuberance shone brighter than any of the surrounding estates, splendidly adorned with ornamental lights. Samantha, however, was the image of a mother weathered by shame. Skin hidden behind layers of grime, and hair hung as a tangled mop over sunken eyes. Faded polaroid photos clutched between calloused fingers, her only remaining memory of Grace’s lost childhood, and of her father that Grace barely knew. Yet, Samantha had made a promise to her daughter – a promise to deliver her Christmas wish.
I like the imagery here so far - it's positive yet sad. It's vibrant, but with a tone of sadness.Samantha attempted not to dwell upon the past memories of a fulfilled Christmas. The precious nostalgias which to her, only seemed fair that all children would be able to experience. And now, Grace’s father was gone. Samantha used to love him.
Maybe, "Samantha loved him" without the "used to" to create the sense that she loved him when he was alive, but also now. She
used to cherish
ed his company and speak of his name in softness. Yet, most nights she would fall asleep, clothed, on an unopened bed. Beaten and broken, she left. Grace still remained too young, too naïve to understand the piercing terror in her mother’s eyes. Her father still loved her, but, he had to let her go.
“Where’s daddy?” she would inquisitively probe, with an infectious glow.
Samantha hesitated.
He was once treasured. Now a memory. A shadow lingering in the depths of Samantha’s mind. It was not as if she could simply say that he was an alcoholic. His life was one of more significance than the fateful addiction that it was suffocated by. Her mother did used to love him. She did used to cherish his company and speak of his name in softness. For the first time in her short life, Grace would celebrate Christmas away from the now distant comfort of being home. For the first time, she would wake up on Christmas Day and her father - would not be there.
“Mummy, my toes hurt” a stricken Grace would complain.
Seeing your own daughter in pain, the kind of pain no six-year-old should have to endure at such a young age eroded at Samantha’s raw heart.
I think there should be another part to this sentence, it's like you went to create a comma splice but didn't put anything after the "raw heart." At the moment, "seeing your own daughter in pain" doesn't make sense on its own, and then pairing it with the type of pain doesn't make sense either. "Seeing your own daughter in pain is excruciating, for example. Also think carefully about using the "your" because this is the first time you've addressed the reader, and if you don't do it again, then it shows an inconsistency. Perhaps, "Samantha's heavy breath carried the weight of seeing her six year old daughter in pain no child should endure." Grace and Samantha shared their vulnerabilities, interlocking their hearts as much as their fingers.
“I know…” she would quite simply respond.
“It will be better soon.”
Yet as Samantha gazed into Grace’s pale blue eyes, she sensed a more profound desire. For this, she could not simply say those same five words she usually would. Grace needed more.
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Samantha peered out to Keltie Bay, flickering with scattered lights as faint laughter echoed in the distance. Where she had come from - the place that Grace called ‘home’ was consumed by an unnerving silence. Cold sweat glistened down Samantha’s furrowed brow. With hands clasped tightly, only alert to the sound of her throbbing heart - she was waiting. She shadowed her target. One of Potts Point’s finest Victorian Italianate estates, a harmony of classical grandeur and contemporary finesse, nestled in the quiet, tree-lined Rockwall Crescent. Standing in the centre of the ornate porcelain courtyard – a freshly potted magnolia little gem. From her sleeping bag emerged a rusted axe. She knew what she had to do.
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Samantha lumbered up the footpath. The sleeping bag was no longer empty. Under the procession of yellow street lights her blood stained hands appeared almost a sickly blackish-gold. The sirens of police cars wailed in the distance. Yet, they were not for her. Still beaten, still broken, she fell. Without him, her strength had faded, slowly swept away by the wind. Grace was all she had.
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Grace woke to an unfamiliar welcome. Blinking, blurriness faded to a distorted mirage of green. It wasn’t perfect, edges frayed, insignificantly sized in stature. To Grace, none of this mattered. To put it simply, it fulfilled a Christmas wish. Grace stood in awe, she could not divert her eyes from the tree. A magnolia little gem, fashioned with hanging photographs. In the corner, stood her mother. A blood-soaked tourniquet slapped to her wrist, her worn hands no longer a constant reminder of what she once perceived as weakness. She had conquered her fears.
“I love you, mum!” Grace chirped.
“Your father…” she paused –
“He loves you too.”
The two stood together, mesmerised, not by the tree but by memories of Grace’s father. As they would most nights, they took refuge in their still windswept sleeping bag, pale polaroid photographs now grasped between Grace’s hardened hands, the only remaining memory of her childhood, of her father that she misses so dearly. So, every Christmas, Grace would decorate her little gem of hope. A sign that her father had also found his way home.