with a picture of my favourite cartoon character. Disney princesses are something I know not of, they are a fantasy, a myth I assume my friends have made up.
It has been five years since my mother took her life, yes I know that she killed herself. It haunts me with my every breath. When I am awake I see her everywhere and when I sleep I dream of her. I barely remember her or any of the time I had with her. All I do remember are those intense blue eyes, the ones that harbour the same depth as my own. I could have sworn she loved me, once upon a time. Hell, I would love to think even my dad loved me once. But why would she leave me, why would she abandon her only child, leaving me with this man if she loved me at all?
“Ok.” I reply, scared of what the consequences will be if I refuse. Feeling the soreness against my back I can quickly estimate the repercussions, knowing they will be dire.
“Quit with the attitude, Abigail. You’re acting fucking spoilt. If it wasn’t for you, your mother would still be here, so be grateful for that.” I know it is my fault she has left, that I made her sad. My dad has reminded me every day since she died. If only I could go back in time, make her life with me easier. I would tell my infant self to not cry so much, to not drive her crazy.
“Sorry,” I tell him, trembling on the spot at his words. “I didn’t mean to seem ungrateful.” I am like a robot, going through the autopilot motions of barely living and surviving in this house. An empty shell is all that stands in my place, and even at nine years old I can tell how little I am breathing and how little the blood that pumps my veins contains pure, real life.
“You better be kid.” His dark eyes penetrate me as I cower by the door. Even at a foot nothing, bent over the table, his body intimidates me to no end.
I just nod once and leave the room. I leave my bag by the door, not bothering to take it upstairs, it will only delay the time in which I can cook for him and then hide away. If I get his dinner to him late he will tan my backside.
I walk into the kitchen, the sideboards scattered with dirty cutlery and crockery that he has used throughout the day. Most of the spoons are used for purposes other than making tea and eating yoghurt, most of the time it is a sticky remnant of something he injects into his arms. I spend hours, scrubbing with all my might to get it off.
“Dinner,” I whisper to myself as I open the cupboards in search of something to cook, something easy and quick so that I can escape to the safe haven that is my room.
I put some pasta on to boil, enough to feed only the man in the room next door. I would rather starve than delay the time in which I get to hide away in the sanctuary of my bedroom. I pour a tin of meatballs into another saucepan and turn both gas jets on to heat.
Within ten minutes I have a bowl of pasta and tomato covered meatballs hot and ready for my father. I walk into the lounge and place it on the table with a knife and fork. “There you go, dad,” I say timidly, stepping away slowly from the table.
“You can leave,” he informs me as though I am a slave relieved of duty for the night. I sigh in relief as I turn my back and leave the room as quickly as I can, masking my fear with the perfection of an actress. He’s like an animal, sensing fear and thriving from it. I learnt long ago, take the punishments and move on.
I grab my school book bag from the table in the hallway and run the grubby carpeted stairs to my refuge. I open the door of my room, run to my bed and flop onto the sheets on my mattress.
I close my eyes, imagining my room with the princesses and fairytales my school friends talk of. Rapunzel is painted on my baby-pink walls, her long braided hair trailing out of her tower, high in the sky. She’s looking for a way to escape, a little like me.
Her prince charming waits at the bottom, his arms open wide ready to catch her from the extraordinary height if
It has been five years since my mother took her life, yes I know that she killed herself. It haunts me with my every breath. When I am awake I see her everywhere and when I sleep I dream of her. I barely remember her or any of the time I had with her. All I do remember are those intense blue eyes, the ones that harbour the same depth as my own. I could have sworn she loved me, once upon a time. Hell, I would love to think even my dad loved me once. But why would she leave me, why would she abandon her only child, leaving me with this man if she loved me at all?
“Ok.” I reply, scared of what the consequences will be if I refuse. Feeling the soreness against my back I can quickly estimate the repercussions, knowing they will be dire.
“Quit with the attitude, Abigail. You’re acting fucking spoilt. If it wasn’t for you, your mother would still be here, so be grateful for that.” I know it is my fault she has left, that I made her sad. My dad has reminded me every day since she died. If only I could go back in time, make her life with me easier. I would tell my infant self to not cry so much, to not drive her crazy.
“Sorry,” I tell him, trembling on the spot at his words. “I didn’t mean to seem ungrateful.” I am like a robot, going through the autopilot motions of barely living and surviving in this house. An empty shell is all that stands in my place, and even at nine years old I can tell how little I am breathing and how little the blood that pumps my veins contains pure, real life.
“You better be kid.” His dark eyes penetrate me as I cower by the door. Even at a foot nothing, bent over the table, his body intimidates me to no end.
I just nod once and leave the room. I leave my bag by the door, not bothering to take it upstairs, it will only delay the time in which I can cook for him and then hide away. If I get his dinner to him late he will tan my backside.
I walk into the kitchen, the sideboards scattered with dirty cutlery and crockery that he has used throughout the day. Most of the spoons are used for purposes other than making tea and eating yoghurt, most of the time it is a sticky remnant of something he injects into his arms. I spend hours, scrubbing with all my might to get it off.
“Dinner,” I whisper to myself as I open the cupboards in search of something to cook, something easy and quick so that I can escape to the safe haven that is my room.
I put some pasta on to boil, enough to feed only the man in the room next door. I would rather starve than delay the time in which I get to hide away in the sanctuary of my bedroom. I pour a tin of meatballs into another saucepan and turn both gas jets on to heat.
Within ten minutes I have a bowl of pasta and tomato covered meatballs hot and ready for my father. I walk into the lounge and place it on the table with a knife and fork. “There you go, dad,” I say timidly, stepping away slowly from the table.
“You can leave,” he informs me as though I am a slave relieved of duty for the night. I sigh in relief as I turn my back and leave the room as quickly as I can, masking my fear with the perfection of an actress. He’s like an animal, sensing fear and thriving from it. I learnt long ago, take the punishments and move on.
I grab my school book bag from the table in the hallway and run the grubby carpeted stairs to my refuge. I open the door of my room, run to my bed and flop onto the sheets on my mattress.
I close my eyes, imagining my room with the princesses and fairytales my school friends talk of. Rapunzel is painted on my baby-pink walls, her long braided hair trailing out of her tower, high in the sky. She’s looking for a way to escape, a little like me.
Her prince charming waits at the bottom, his arms open wide ready to catch her from the extraordinary height if
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