well here's the first chapter, please read and review!
Chapter 1: "My Story"
We were dirt poor. And I don't mean that we didn't have much. I mean we had no money. We had nothing. Papa only worked the rare odd job, but instead of giving the little money he did make to Mama, he spent it on the bottle.
Papa sure liked his drink. He loved his drink actually. He would go to the tavern after earning just a few coppers and they would be gone within minutes, leaving him only thirsty for more. He begged off of the others in the taverns until they gave in and bought him a drink. After he was drunk he would stagger home, back to our shack.
The shack was just as is sounded. Lord knows how it was still standing—it was nothing more than a pile of sticks. There was no floor, just the hard packed dirt. The table was a rotting piece of wood with three legs, the third propped up from some odd pieces of wood I had found outside. There was Papa and Mama's bed in the corner and mine in the opposite corner—a ragged sheet pulled around it for what little privacy that served.
Papa would ramble into our yard and stumble through the front door. Mama and I would usually already be in bed asleep, dreading his return. He would rant and rave when he did come in that door, yelling at Mama for everything—her cooking, her looks, everything. He would hit her—slap her around. Usually I would stay in bed, behind my hanging sheet, crying softly, hoping he wouldn't hear me.
Sometimes he would remember that I was there though. He would come over to my corner and proceed to hit me, punch me, kick me. He liked to yell. He called me an ugly, filthy whore who wasn't worth anything. He had called me worse. I tried not to cry over this. But it was hard.
Papa was not my real papa. He was Mama's husband yes, but that was all. He had once been a sailor—a dashing one I am told by Mama. She said she loved him. According to Mama, when he was gone on one of his voyages, a pirate ship came into our little town. She had met one of the greatest men she had ever known, she told me. She had been in town that evening, married only six months. She had been at her friend's house and on her way back to her home she was attacked by a strange man. He ripped at her clothes, hurt her. She cried out—she feared she would die.
It was then that a shot was fired. The man went down. She screamed at the bullet hole in his back and turned to the gun that fired the shot. The man holding it was a dandy, dressed in expensive silks, a great feathered hat, and supple leather boots. He was fair skinned with bright red hair, and even in the failing light she could see his bright blue green eyes shining in the moonlight.
He put the gun back in his belt and walked over to her, helping her to her feet. "Are you alright?" he asked softly.
"I… I think so… thanks to you," she murmured. I have heard that my mother used to be the most beautiful woman in town. Though now you wouldn't know if because of Papa… She used to have long, thick, shining black hair, deep brown eyes, and olive skin.
"I am glad to be of service, miss," he replied with a smile. Mama says it was the smile that did it. He was so handsome, so strong… so impressive.
"You must let me fix you something to eat, sir…" she said.
"That is not necessary, miss. I can go to the tav—"
"I won't hear of it. You will come with me. I must thank you proper," I don't know if either of them realized what she really meant by that at the time. However, he went along, as she led the way to the small house that had been her dowry when she married Papa. They lost it a few years later over his gambling debts—I barely remember the beautiful house with its wood floor and glass windows.
Mama did make the man dinner—she was a wonderful cook. The man was hungry—he ate all she gave him and then some. When he finished Mama began to clear away his dishes. The man came up behind her and began to kiss her on the neck. Instead of pushing him away, she turned to him and kissed him deeply on the mouth. They came together that night. Mama said she learned what love was that night. The man stayed three days. When he finally left Mama cried. When he asked her to come with him, she shook her head with despair, telling him of her husband.
The man didn't want to leave; he continued to beg her to come. She refused and he left. She made him promise never to come back because of her husband. He kept his promise.
A couple of months later Mama found out she was to have a baby—his baby. She panicked. She was afraid of what Papa would do. She waited tormenting herself with the anger that was sure to come. Papa had been gone five months—there was no way she could convince him the baby was his.
When Papa returned, Mama was beginning to show. She told me he yelled like a mad man when he found out. He stormed out of the house and went to get drunk. When he got back much later that night he slapped Mama around, told her she was a tramp, and then he went to bed with her.
From that night on Papa always beat on her. There would be good patches where he would be good and nice, but he was usually mean and vicious.
I was born a few months later and Mama named me Caitlyn. Papa was angry—not only because I was a worthless girl, but also because I had a bright red fuzzy cap of hair. My eyes were a deep blue green—Mama would tell me they exactly matched my real father's. Of course she never told me that Papa was not my real father until I was about twelve. I was so happy to find out that he wasn't my pa that when he came home that night I told him with a grin, "You're not my real pa."
Mama was horrified. He slapped me across the face for that, knocking me onto the floor, clutching my aching face. Mama rushed to defend me before he could kick me as I lay there, but he just turned his anger onto her. He yelled at her for telling me and then he proceeded to beat her while I screamed.
The next few years passed much the same—Mama and I were miserable in our pitiful shack. Often, Mama and I would go hungry while Papa was out drinking. We were hard pressed to find decent clothes—we usually had little more than rags. The food we did have was usually old and moldy. This went on until my eighteenth birthday.
My Mama had scrimped—she wanted my birthday to be special. She told me I was turning into a lady. That afternoon—Papa was out, drinking most likely—she presented me with an emerald green dress.
"Do you like it?" she asked with a hopeful smile.
My eyes welled up with tears. She looked distressed at my reaction, "No Mama—it's wonderful. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen…"
She smiled wide at this and presented me with a new corset to go along with the dress. "Do you want to try it on, Sweetie?" I nodded and stripped down to my old threadbare shift. Mama tied the corset on—I was so thin that it was of little use. I pulled on the dress and smiled as she held up the shard of a mirror we owned for me to see myself. I looked… decent I thought… maybe even a little pretty.
"You look so beautiful…" she whispered. "There is so much of your father in you." I smiled at this. I looked very little like my mother—even my skin was a freckly mess that burned easily. I hugged her, and murmured, "Thank you Mama."
It was at that moment that the door swung open and Papa staggered in with a bottle of what appeared to be whiskey. "What the hell is going on here?" he slurred. "You spent my hard earned money on a dress for the whore?"
Mama was angry at this. She hated when he called me that, "You haven't given me a cent in years Henry. You know that very well."
It didn't take much to set him off. He came at Mama with the bottle still in his hand and as I screamed, smashed it into her beautiful face. She immediately fell to the ground—I feared her dead. He grabbed a knife off the table next to Mama and as I rushed to her side, he plunged it into her chest. I threw my weight at him desperately trying to get to Mama—to somehow save her.
She was gasping for breath—near dead I could tell. "Oh Mama," I cried.
I could barely hear it—it was incredibly soft, "Deliverance." That's what I think she said anyways. However, I didn't have much time to ponder the question, I was forcefully pulled to my feet. Henry, as I would call him from then on—he was not worthy of any respect—hit me across the face. He then shoved me across the room so I hit the wall with such force that the wind was knocked out of me. I must have hit my head, because I blacked out for a few seconds. When I awoke he was right in front of me. "Damn you! You stupid lousy whore! You've ruined my life!"
"You've ruined it all yourself," I spat out at him. "You're a murderer!" I wanted to kill him. I wanted him to die like he had killed Mama.
He grabbed my wrists and held me down. "You think you're so fancy now—strutting around in your fancy shit. Maybe I'll take you done a few notches."
As I struggled against his much larger bulk, he held my wrists with his much bigger hand as he used the bloody knife from killing Mama to slice open the front of my new dress. He then sliced through my corset and shift. He used the string from my corset to tie my hands together, which he tied to the leg of the bed. I screamed for him to stop. He wouldn't. He fondled my breasts, kissed my mouth. He kept the knife in his hand and held it to my neck. He told me he was going to kill me if I struggled. He was angry and frustrated as he forced my legs apart and pushed his way inside me. I screamed louder, praying to god for help.
He made me sit up and held the knife to my neck as he ordered me to gratify him. Tears streamed down my face as he forced me to open my mouth. After this he entered me again.
The tears had dried when he finally fell asleep in a drunken heap beside me. I didn't want to die, but yet I did. I worked my hands against the sturdy corset string around my wrists until my wrists were raw and bloody. I felt the cord snap. I grabbed the knife from his hands and proceeded to plunge it into his back. He was lying dead in a pool of blood as I walked over to put on one of my old dresses. I kissed Mama's face before I left, and glanced over at the emerald dress drenched in blood a few feet away.
I walked out the door, vowing I would cry no longer.
