I sold ten years of my life for this; it would take me years to find my parents! I surveyed the desolate land around me nothing but sand dunes and cloudless skies. I begged Hades god of the underworld for this, I begged him to let me see my parents just one time to talk to them. To ask them why they left me near the Jefferson's in a basket.
Did they need money?
Were they being chased by the mafia?
Or did they just not want to deal with the problem of me?
But for the life of me why would they choose the worst people ever to leave me to. If they hated me so much they should have killed me, and said it was cradle death. I suffocated in my sleep, cops must get millions of cases like that a year what's another they probably wouldn't even notice. Living with the Jefferson's was hell, they treated me like a slave no more than a common dog. Sometimes if I didn't do something they liked they'd tie me up in the yard like a dog with no clothes on. They also brought me food in specially made bowls they got for me with my name, Allison, carved on the side.
It took me fifteen long years to work up the courage to run away and to hell no less. It was just as the Jefferson's horrible neighbor said "I always do things with a bang." The first time she said that was six years ago and I'd never forget that day. It was the day I started my 'servant' training, the first lesson cooking. By the end of the day I had burned half the house making eggs. That day I got the beating of a life time. I was lucky I walked away with one punctured lung, a broken nose, two bloodied eyes, a dislocated shoulder, broken wrist, and all my broken fingers. If it weren't for the guy who stopped on the street and called an ambulance I probably wouldn't be having these crappy thoughts right now.
The whole messed up thing in this situation was how the Jefferson's came and visited me in the hospital. You probably thought they were a caring worried family. Mrs. Jefferson fawning all over me kissing my cheeks and calling me her precious baby; when if not three hours earlier she was calling me a rotten little wench who wasn't good enough to lick her old dirty shoes. They visited me every day with kind words that never met their eyes. When I got home my work load was increased tenfold, but they never let me in the kitchen again.
The night I left was just as normal as any summer night in London, nothing special. If you don't count the skeletal hand reaching out at me from the shadows and as they say curiosity killed the cat or in my case made the cat give up ten years of their human life.
But now just because I made a deal with the 'devil', I'm wondering about hell like a tourist with no tour guide. I stopped to look around, licking my dry cracked lips. What I wouldn't do for something to drink, I almost laughed at the irony of the situation.
Being thirsty in hell.
The clunking scrape of glass against glass sounded to the left of me. What could that be?
"Hello," I asked nervously, only getting the howling of wind and the slap of sand against my skin as an answer.