And all of your words fall flat
I made something of myself and now you wanna come back
But your love—it isn't free, it has to be earned
Back then I didn't have anything you needed so I was worthless
- Kelly Clarkson, Piece by Piece
Her father had always been a kind man before her mother's death, taking care of both of them with the love and devotion he knew he should. Adair tried after Rossalyn's death, managing to keep the house running and his daughter cared for, his shop keeping food on their table and enough coal to keep the fire burning throughout the frigid Scottish nights. His temper awoke every few months however, his belt cracking as it swung at his daughter, striking her across her hands and back as she yelped, running from the room.
"Yer bloody useless girl!" He would yell, shoving her away from him.
"I'm sorry," she whimpered, curling up on herself in the corner of the kitchen, the stone floor cold against the skin of her legs and lower back.
"Can't even sell ya, yer bloody hideous," he would add, often grabbing her when she tried to escape, pressing his burning cigarette to her skin as she cried, the smell of alcohol permeating the air as his breath blew into her face.
She stopped crying the tenth time it happened, biting her cheek until it bled in order to take away from the feeling of her skin burning and the smell that would fill the kitchen. She took to reading medical textbooks at the library, learning how to mend her wounds herself with the small amount of supplies they had at home.
When he was in a good mood, when he hadn't been drinking, Adair was the normal father he had always been before Rossalyn's death. He doted on his daughter, bringing her sweets, asking her about her day, about school, about gossip in the town. She kept her distance however, spending the majority of her time at church when she wasn't at the library or school, praying for a release from her life.
The day she left he was more intoxicated than she had ever seen him, his gait staggering and his words slurred.
"Ye bloody whore! Yer worthless, you hear me? WORTHLESS. Ye won't ever find a man lookin' like ye do! Stay with that God o' yers, he's the only one who could look past how ye look!"
She had grabbed a few pairs of clothes, shoving them into a satchel, along with a picture of her mother and the little amount of money she had gathered from helping out at the library and fled, her father's screaming echoing behind her, resonating in her mind all the way to London, the furthest she could get on such short notice and with a letter from her pastor hidden in her dress, telling her to go to Nonnatus House.
"Get back here Shelagh! SHELAGH!"