We begin this story in the late afternoon of the eighth of October, 1886. Yes, I still remember the date. I remember many things now that I never thought that I would.
But I remember this day because this was the day that I truly died.
Autumn was in full effect. The trees had taken on fiery shades and the light was golden every afternoon. I was a mere seven years old, a simple child, climbing trees, tormenting the cat, playing with my friends. I admired the boys, especially Moritz, but the thought of giving them a peck on the cheek was alien to me. Looking back on it now, I was truly a silly little girl, tumbling all over the place, giggling like a maniac.
I had just come back from Wendla Bergman's house, where I had been playing fairies with her, Ilse Frei, Anna Wheelan and Thea Verrat. We had just agreed that whenever we played, I would be the fairy queen, because I was the tallest and I was in high spirits. For once being a larger girl paid off! I trotted into the kitchen, my brown pigtails bouncing on my shoulders. You were there, Mama. You were drying a dish from lunchtime, a chore that you had always left until the golden afternoon had dawned on us.
Mama, how much I had loved you! I idolized you, as most girls idolized their mothers but I only see now how truly scared you were. I remember, you were always nervous, eyes always darting fiercely around the room, it seemed you were terrified that, perhaps something would jump out at you. You were so weak, the slightest thing would send you into shivers. Mama, how much I remember your face. I can see it so clearly now, yet there's another face, one that I can't recognize right beside it.
I had ran into the kitchen and grabbed one of the sweet buns that you had nodded me towards. Your buns, Mama, they were delicious. You turned to me and asked if I would bring a cup of coffee to my father.
I, of course, jumped at this offer. What girl would turn down an opportunity to help her sweet mother. So, I eagerly grabbed the cup of scalding coffee and trotted into your office.
Looking back on it again, I cannot see how it took me so long before the full heat of the cup had sunk in. but I ran into your office and suddenly I realized how hot it was.
I made to quickly put it down on the table next to my father's chair, truly I did. I never meant to do what happened next.
My arm accidentally nudged it and the coffee poured out over the table, soaking your papers and spilling onto your trousers.
It all happened so quickly then.
You jumped up, your legs throwing the chair behind you into the wall, knocking over several of the things on top of the chest of drawers. You looked at your grey trousers, glistening with black coffee, and then fixed your steely eyes on me.
I still remember your words;
"You horrible little ingrate." You hissed. "You have no business coming into my office and spilling my own coffee all over my trousers." You then wrap your hands around my shoulders. "You piece of filth!" You shout, shaking me, digging your fingers into my bones. "You don't deserve to live in this house, you deserve to be living on the streets!" You push, throwing me across the room and I land on my knees, banging my head on the wall.
The next thing I see, you are undoing your belt and sliding it out of your trousers. I see you raise your arm, belt in hand before I feel a horrible, burning pain over my cheek. I look up at you, frightened and my hands move up to my cheek. It's wet. There's blood. You had made me bleed.
"You- disgusting- piece- of rubbish!" With every word, you drop your arm, sending another pain, this time on my shoulder, this time on my knee, this time on my back, this time on my foot. The pain as awful, I feel it everywhere and after eight horrible lashes you finally stop.
"To bed, you." You hiss, glaring down at me. "If you deserve it, after all."
You then stalk out of the room and I am left to do nothing but curl up on the floor and sob.
That was the day that I died inside. The eighth of October, 1886. My true deathday.