A/N: FYI: CHANGES MADE! September 6, 2014 for both chapters 1 & 2! I'm updating and all. Please tell me if there are spelling/grammar errors so I may fix them! ;)
CHAPTER ONE-Girl
He said he would return in time for dinner. Where are you Daddy? Please hurry because I am so hungry my bellyaches! I need something, anything, to rid my starving stomach. Please come home soon!
Thump, thump, thump, heavy thuds from work boots march down the wooden staircase. Pat, pat, pat, they clap along the concrete floor, crescendoing as they near the heavy-duty door confining me in my 14' X 8' room.
Beep, beep, boop, bop, the electronic passcode clicks when a four-digit code punches into the number padlock. Clink, the alarm dings, granting access inside.
Pssst, the steel door hisses as the seal of the door detaches from the door frame, revealing me perched on my bed.
"Daddy!" I smile, jumping off blithely. Racing to him, I almost knock myself to the ground due to the sheer force of my light body colliding with his sturdier, heavier weight. I wrap my bony arms around his developing pot belly, unwilling to liberate him. "I've missed you," I rasp, my voice sore from not having been in use since last seeing him.
"What did I say about getting up without my permission?" He booms crossly, his voice echoing due to the compacted space.
I flinch, scampering to my pallet in the far right corner, and immediately, I submissively lower my crown.
"Well?" He yells expectantly while grabbing my chin and yanking my stare to meet his stone cold eyes. His meat breath is hot on my panicked face.
"I'm-I'm s-sorry. I kn-know better, I won't do it again," I stammer, hoping for my apology to relax his angry mood, but in the back of my mind, I know my words simply are not enough to quell his anger.
He releases his hold on my chin and gently strokes my perspiring hairline with his calloused fingers. "Are you hungry," he proposes in his kind, raspy, and baritone voice.
My stomach grumbles in response, so I blush and look away, a bit embarrassed. Still taken aback by his sudden temper change and lack of punishment, I nod once. When I glance up to inspect if his emotion is still caring, I instantly notice his face has hardened once more. All over again, I'm on edge, waiting, unsure what I did to upset him. Then the reason dawns on me.
"How were you taught to answer?" He barks, making my appetite vanish automatically. He scrunches his fist into my shirt collar, lifting me to stand on my tiptoes. "Huh? Answer me you little Piece of crap!" He snarls, his spit splatters across my scared face.
I squint then avert my gaze to the ground passively. "Daddy, I'm sorry! I just for-forgot is all. Yea-Yes, I am hun-hungry," I hyperventilate and scuffle my toes on the floor, trying to gather room for my oxygen-deprived lungs.
He yields his fist; my shirt wrinkles and protrudes from my chest. Urged to flatten the plain, baby blue, cotton tee-shirt, I resist my impulses. Knowingly, I keep my gaze glued to the ground. Studying his filthy, tan construction shoes, I note they are caked in stone, dirt, grass, flaky cement, and dust residue. Suddenly his boxer paws unleash my tattered tee.
Wham! I am so caught off guard at his blitz attack. My face flushes on impact as my head whips diagonally to my upper right. My whole body spins, stopping abruptly, forcing my center of balance to falter. Staggering for stability, my feet twist and turn, until I faceplant the cinder block wall beside me. Gravity overcomes me, causing my legs to buckle as my body crumbles haphazardly. Don't cry, don't cry...
Awkwardly, I rest on top of my legs too stunned to adjust in to a more bearable or comfortable seating arrangement. Although the wall acts like an ice pack to my inflamed cheek, the healing properties do not extend to reduce my distress of a further assault. Out of my watery periphery a shadow shifts swiftly, but my mind is addled from Dad's blow. My brain is incapable of processing any circumstances in their actuality. I flinch as my side bangs is swiped off my forehead. My body tenses, stiffens like a corpse in rigamortus, yet I tremble like a leaf awaiting for his next move.
Dad's coarse knuckles massage my unharmed cheekbone, and somehow, I manage to withhold my tears, for now. "Do you know why you were punished?" He prompts bitterly, sounding as threatening as a major storm warning.
"Yes, Dad-Daddy. I'm sorry for-for not speaking wh-when spoken to," my breath hitches as I try to smooth them.
"And…" He presses, slightly adding unnecessary force to my pulsating temple.
"And for moving with-without your permission," I add a bit more in control of my tone.
"Good girl," he nods, forgivingly. Dad's voice is still laced with coldness. He stands, ambles to my breakfast tray, and plops the food, from the Burger King bag at the door, on top of the cheap plastic. "Now eat," commands he monotonously as he locks the door behind himself and climbs the stairs.
I shakily collect my nerves, retrieve the abandoned tray, and return to my pathetic twin-sized mattress. Raising the wrapped burger, I hesitantly whiff in the scent. Fish sandwich, my nose deduces. My chewed-off fingernails peel the thin wax-like paper aside, unraveling the plump sandwich. Wanting to wisely savor the burger, my growling stomach quickly overrides my brain's desire and wolfs the flounder down the hatch, leaving no crumb left behind.
Licking the tartar sauce clean from my lips, my mouth grows watery for more. My mind reminds me that my next meal will likely recur between the end of tomorrow, in the middle of the following day, or during the waking hours of the third day. If I am fortunate enough.
Dad claims in order to fully express thankfulness for simple necessities, such as food, one must go without. So, I push my burning hunger on the back burner. Until Dad delivers, my mind replays in the taste of the meal.
To experience the memory in full enhancement, I close my eyes, and welcome my senses to heighten. My nostrils inhale in the aromas of the condiments that once sat on my tongue. My mouth salivates, remembering how flavorful the relish, fused with the flounder, coated my taste buds. So good…so, so, very delicious.
My eyes are sore, another sleepless night owed solely from night terrors brought on from my dreams. I lay quietly, counting sheep, though I cannot understand why I bother. Sheep never helped me anyway, except to pass time, so I continue to count: 5,207 sheep, 5,208 sheep, 5,209 sheep…
Soon my mind tires of sheep, so I review Dad's Rules. I shall never forget them, that would be a sin! All of his rules are to be followed on command, and to ensure I remember them Dad demands that I be prepared to recite them at any given moment.
All of his rules make sense I suppose. He demands utmost respect nothing less than perfection. Perfection is his standard, a standard I rarely seem to meet.
Repeating them over and over as not to ever forget them. Dad adds rules when he chooses, and I expect the next rule will develop soon. I ought to remember all of them, Dad warns, or else (say no more).
Following his rules is easy to say, harder to do though. Concluding from countless penalties, I have learned that moving tortoiselike or spending too long to engage in a task results in a punishment: harsh words, a beating, prolonged wait for a meal, or perpetual isolation.
Though all punishments are difficult to bear, isolation is bar-none the worst. Solitary, with no one to communicate, to play, to laugh, to interact with, after an extended period, is death-like. Isolation is what I live in, for these walls bar any contact with the social world that I am aware exists.
Sometimes I dream for a differently life, in the social world.
"Outside is an inhumane, cruel world," Dad describes on the few occasions I profess about wanting to escape from my cell. He reiterates, "There are very bad people out there who want to hurt you, to snatch you into their own dark interests, to haunt and trouble you." "But here you are safe," he counters my insecure thoughts. "Here, with me, everything is as life should be. You have everything you need: food, water, shelter, safety, affection, interaction, and breathable air," Dad argues, further attempting to support his side. Furthermore, he testifies, "People out in that world have ample possessions. They know not how to be thankful, nor do they cherish their belongings. Children are as greedy as ever, those ungrateful little brats." He continues spitefully, giving the door the evil eye, "This generation is undisciplined. Humans speak their mind impulsively and excessively. Nobody needs their opinions on trivial topics like who is hot and not." He breathes in and then out. "People are absurdly vain. They mask their talents," he pauses to cluster his thoughts, "and divine beauty in dishonesty, thereby distorting their true selves."
His tone switches to a low and protective growl. Dad asserts coldly, "I will kill to keep you safe, untainted by their selfishness, their evilness. One tried to seize you before, so I had no other choice but to end him." He does not divulge into a detailed account, but he mentions the patrol officer who unwittingly hindered his rescue of me from my alleged junkie and apparently good-for-nothing mother.
"I am raising you to never be one of those people," he remarks tersely with much passion.