That was fast don't you agree? I felt terribly inspired xD
Adding in that I don't have to work this weekend I did actually have the chance to write some more so I have a little stash, yays!

Chapter length will vary as I see a cut fit. I'm sure you'll come to understand.

Off we go :)


Cock-a-doodle-doo!

Cock-a-doodle-doo!

Cock-a-doodle-doo!

Oh, how she hated the sound of the freaking rooster. Every morning, without a break it would start
screaming on top of its lungs. When she was a child, she used to love waking up at the break of dawn
but that had changed years ago.

She also knew what would be coming next, just like every morning. Day by day. Week by week.
Month by month. Year by year.

Ting, ting, ting, ting.

Ting, ting, ting, ting.

Ting, ting, ting, ting.

Yes, indeed. The always reliable morning bell.

Groaning she turned around, inwardly praying that there was any way she could spend just a few
more minutes, preferably hours in bed. But as always, she would be denied that small pleasure.

She was aware that if she wouldn't be up within the next few minutes, she'd end up in more than
just a little trouble.

She had dared asking for a day off once. The reaction she got was a fist into the stomach, a couple of
really hard slaps into her face. She definitely would never ask for a day off ever again.

But a girl can dream, can't she.

As she rolled out of her wooden bed, she stretched a little, waking her sore muscles up and popping
one or the other bone in the process.

Yawning, she put her pillow and blanket in order on her bed and took a look around her room.
The three times three meter big room was located on the second story of the small house she had
been living in ever since she could remember. There was only one other room on this floor which
would be the master bedroom where her mother and stepfather were spending the night in.

A heavy beech door marked the entrance into her very own place. She was not sure if she was lucky
or not that she no longer had to share it with anyone.

The house itself was made of wooden planks. Sometimes she enjoyed the smell that provided, other
days she dreaded it. Especially on rainy days she sometimes was unsure if she liked living in a pile of
wood or not. It made her feel uncomfortable, even though she usually loved the rain so very much.

The room in itself was rather plain: She had a small window across the door the usually was pretty
much the only source of light she has. Considering that the sun was only just starting to set, it was
barely illuminated by the few rays that shone through the small opening in the wall around this time
of the day.

Sometimes, when she had to be up at night or during winter days, she was provided with an old
petroleum lamp. Since she was not allowed to "waste" any kind of resources her family owned, the
days she was allowed to turn on the little lamp in the room were scarce.

Other times, she would allow herself the luxury to light a candle in the evening and to just stare into
the distance, look at the stars and dream her life away.

Wishing she lived in a far, far future were things would be easier and she actually was allowed to
do things. She had always wanted to learn reading. Her late father said he would teach her, but
before his death many years ago, they only got so far. She did, however, still have some of his old
documents and even one or two books. So whenever she did have a moment of silence for herself,
she would try to decipher the words and give them a meaning.

Her father had done a really good job in teaching her the basics. After a couple of years – she was
seventeen years old by now – she had mastered what she could sneak away during the chaos after
he had passed away.

Comparing that to other people her age, men and women alike, it actually was an achievement she
could take pride in. But then again, nobody really knew that she was capable of reading. Not that she
really talked to people. She held the ability dear nonetheless. It was her only bounding to her father.

So sometimes, when she was absolutely sure that nobody was around, she would light the little
candle, sit on her small chair and just enjoy the words while remembering better times.

The books and documents themselves were secretly and securely stashed away under her bed.
Talking about the bed, it was a rather small wooden bed with a hard mattress. It stood in the right
corner of the room and had a white sheet, pillow and a brown blanket on top of it. The blanket was
made of wool. Her mother had given it to her many years ago. She had made it herself.

That actually was the last gift she had ever received from her mother, who held a deep grudge
towards her ever since her father and the rest of her family died during the incident seven years ago.

At first, she did not really blame her mother. She understood that she was grieving for her late
father. Later, however, she started despising the woman. It had become obvious that she was
wishing it was Ashley who had died. She overheard a conversation once – she had asked her new
husband why it was her who had to survive. Why it was her who was given the gift to keep living
when so many others were not allowed to.

That night was the first of many she lay awake at night, stargazing or reading.

On the other end of the room were her chair and a small table. Both made of wood. Under the table
she had a bucket of water which she refilled every evening and a small washcloth. Furthermore, she
had a little drawer with few clothes inside them. She was sure other girls her age had a lot more than
what she owned, but she had little to say when it came to that.

Whenever she grew out of something, she would get two new sets of dresses or a blouse and a skirt
and that was pretty much it. If for some reason any of the clothes got torn, all she could do was to fix
them up by herself.

Sighing, she stripped out of her white nightgown and sat down on the small chair. She washed
herself off with the washcloth, shivering once she felt the cold water on her skin. She knew her
mother and stepfather did in fact not wash their bodies every day – she could not understand that.
She hated the feeling of dirt on her skin. Then again, if they had known she did give herself that little
luxury every day, they would call her wasteful and most likely punish her for it.

Another reason as to why she did not have too much time in the mornings.

Sometimes, during summer, she would try to get a hold of a couple of flowers to also add a fresh
smell into the water. She loved the smell of flowers. It reminded her of better days when all she had
to worry about was playing around with other children in the nearby flower fields.

Nowadays, her days were all about work. Sell things, bring home money – if she did not, she would
be in trouble.

Being in trouble meant pain – both emotionally and physically. So all she really could do was swallow
the feelings she had and just robotically go through the day, go through what she now called life.

After she finished washing up, she pushed the bucket back under the table, making sure nobody
would see it on first glance when entering the room. She put on fresh underwear and her light red
linen dress. She used her hands to brush through her hair (she did own a hair brush but it had broken
not too long ago. She would have to find a way to get a hold on a new one) and let her brown locks
fall loosely on her shoulder.

Sometimes, people would approach her and call her pretty. Sometimes, people would approach her
and promise her the clouds from the skies. Sometimes, she wondered why people even bothered her
with all of those lies.

In her opinion, she was anything but pretty. She was not very tall, had brown hair and eyes. She had
once met a German woman as she and her husband were passing through the town. She had had
blonde hair and green eyes.

She was mesmerized by those eyes and incredibly jealous. She was not too fond of her eye- and hair
colour. She found it too plain. Yet, she hated the thought of standing out too much at the same time.
She also did not like the size of her chest. Most girls her age were a lot more ample than her. It made
her feel inferior, especially if you added in her height.

Her father used to compliment her smile, saying how much he loved how she'd crinkle her nose
whenever he could win a smile from her.

Nobody but her father had ever been able to really see her smile, though. She had stopped being
happy the very day he passed away. Whenever she had to laugh or smile now, it was forced. It was
fake.

Her whole persona had become fake at a certain point. But she did not care too much. Wearing a
mask to deceive people made things so much more easier than actually having to confront them.

Smiles sold goods. Smiles made people leave you alone. Smiles kept you out of trouble.

Because, during these times, all you did was to sink into the crowd. To not stand out. Sometimes,
when she was in one of her thinking moods, she came to the conclusion that that also indicated not
to live.

So, to put things short, she was living without really living. Complicated much? Indeed.

After getting dressed, she decided it was time to push these thoughts aside for now and face
whatever the day would have coming for her. Not that that would be too much – as always.

She slowly pulled open the door leading into the small hallway on the second floor and looked
around. It seemed her mother and stepfather had already finished getting ready for the day and
were now downstairs.

She could make out the faint smell of Barley Tea and heard voices coming from the small kitchenette.
Sighing and bracing herself for the little show she had to put up with the two older people, she
stepped out of the dark hallway and walked towards the stairs.

Slowly taking one step after another, she was down way too fast for her liking but then again, that
was pretty much unavoidable with a mere eight steps.

Her mother, Christine, and her stepfather, Geoffrey, were sitting together at the large wooden table,
deep in conversation. Now, you could not really have any kind of deep or meaningful conversations
with her mother but then again, Geoffrey was no different. Her mother had never bothered to
learn anything about anything. She knew how to cook, sew and few other things to do around the
household but that was pretty much all of what she fathomed to do.

Geoffrey was a farmer. Or used to be. He now was leading a small business with his younger brother,
Richard. Richard had taken over their family's old farm and Geoffrey would be selling the goods
here in the town. So all her stepdad did was to bring the goods into the town and then have his
stepdaughter sell them all day on the market place.

Additionally, Richard's wife was doing a lot of pottery and some other crafts – she was a lot more
talented than Christine – so once a week she would also have to sell these.

Richard and Geoffrey split the income evenly. Geoffrey was a lazy bastard but he knew how to trick
people into letting him have an easy life. He did know his way around numbers and he was a talker.
Not with much knowledge to beckon that but he just knew how to talk people into doing what he
wanted.

And that was also how he got a deal out of his brother that left him with half of the money his goods
made while barely having to do anything by himself.

Ashley did actually like Richard and Melissa; they were a really kind couple. On the other hand,
however, she barely had any opportunity to see them. The only occasions would be important
holidays such as Christmas or Easter time. Other than that she was never allowed to see them, or
really anyone else for that matter.

While she was still in thoughts, she could hear her mother's annoying and shrill laugh shriek through
the room. Apparently, Geoffrey had told another of his "jokes".

God, the guy was anything but funny, Christine was too stupid to realize that, though and would end
up laughing at anything he threw out just because she didn't know better. And of course, she herself
would have to laugh, too.

Because you did not want to upset Geoffrey. He could be pretty violent, even more so if he didn't like
you. And she doubted that there was any person in the world whom he despised more than he did
with her.

They still hadn't noticed her. Or they decided to ignore her until she would make her presence
known enough. Not that she cared either way, she hated having to spend any time with them. She
could see they were already eating breakfast. Christine was a terrible cook, but then again they did
not have the greatest choice of things to cook with.

Even though, unlike other people thanks to Richard they had a pretty decent amount of goods to
choose from. Different kinds of vegetables, such as potatoes, carrots and cabbage. Every few months
he would also let them have some beef, pork and cutlery. Whenever he ended the life of one of the
animals he was breeding. Richard's farm was pretty big and thanks to him, the family lived better
than they honestly deserved.

She was ever so grateful for Richard's existence. She wished she could live with him instead,
however, that was but a dream.

Anyways, Christine's breakfast usually contained of some semolina, sometimes with milk, other times
just plain water. On better days, she would also be able to serve some cut fruits with it. Whenever
Geoffrey got sick of the "stuff" as he called it, she would also stick to making a simple soup. When
they were sick of either, they would stick for some simple bread, butter and salt.

Whenever Ashley was lucky, they would actually leave some for herself. It was not the norm for
sure. She would have to skip breakfast on at least three or four days of the week. During these
times, Geoffrey usually allowed her to take one of the apples and eat them. Sometimes, however, he
merely forgot and she was left without any.

It was not that she couldn't just take one of the apples even if he didn't tell her she could. She had
tried before, a girl has to eat after all. When she had come home that evening, though, he had
counted the money and goods as always. He noticed one apple was missing or the payment thereof.
So after explaining him, she had eaten it for breakfast he had been furious.

Over a stupid little apple, yes. He had beaten her up and she had to go without any kind of food for
two days. So it shouldn't be too hard to believe why she stopped trying to care for her own nutrition
too much after that.

Christine would always cook for two people. Geoffrey and herself. If for some reason she made a
little too much or either of them was not really hungry, that meant breakfast for Ashley. Otherwise,
well that's life.

As she approached the chatting couple, their conversation died down for a moment. Rolling her
eyes inwardly, she put on a fake smile and greeted them cheerily. "Good morning sir," she started
nodding to Geoffrey, "mother." As she had her eyes on her mother she always had to ask herself
where things went wrong. She, herself, had never done anything to wrong her mother, yet the

woman hated her with passion.

No use going there, she told herself before carefully pulling back a chair at the end of the table, the
one farthest away from Geoffrey and her mother.

The couple had just nodded in acknowledgement, not wasting any of their breath to actually talk to
her. Nothing new there either.

Today seemed to be one of the better days, though. Her mother reluctantly pushed a cup of Barley
tea and a bowl of what looked like a simple vegetable soup towards her, accompanied with a very
small slice of bread. Apparently, they had already eaten the rest of the bread. But she sure as hell
wouldn't be picky, it was more than she had had in the past two weeks for breakfast.

Somewhat gratefully she slurped down her meal and the couple continued their conversation. As
always, she did not pay any attention to what the two of them were talking about. She knew she
wasn't the smartest person around but compared to them she sometimes would end up wondering if
they even had any common sense.

Their topics usually evolved around late-night-activities, the lack thereof with couples they knew and
other stupid gossip. Not her thing at all.

She watched the living room silently. The living room her dad had put up. There was a small fireplace
on the left side of the house. In front of it was a sheepskin. She used to love cuddling with it during
cold winter days in front of the heat of the fire when she was younger.

At times, her dad and her would just be sitting there and he would tell her fairytales or stories of his
youth. Her grandfather had been a travelling merchant and because of that her dad had spent a lot
of his childhood seeing many parts of the country. While he had loved it, he himself had preferred
to settle down. But nonetheless, he had great stories to tell. He once even saw the king! Those
memories would always make her smile. Regrettably, that was all they were – mere memories.

Geoffrey getting up ripped her out of her thoughts. It was time for her to leave for another day of
standing on a market place, trying to sell the goods he was supposed to sell. Making the money he
should be making.

The money, she would never see a single penny of at that.

She took her bowl and cup and took it towards the bucket they used to clean them up at least a
little. Doing that, she then put them to the rest of the little amount of dishes they had, before going
towards the door.

She put on her simple leather slippers and waited for Geoffrey to bid his farewell to Christine.
Farewell for about ten minutes before they would be doing whatever it was they did all day long. She
surely had no intention of ever knowing. Their late-night-activities were enough at times. God, and
they were so noisy. Geoffrey always kind of grunted and her mother, well... She was a screamer. It
had kept her up many nights and given her nightmares about as many times.

After Geoffrey finally let go of her mother – had had picked her up at one point to kiss her rather
passionately – he finally approached the front door and left it with Ashley following him.

They went around the house to the small wooden cart that was placed there. He handed her the
goods she was to sell today: around ten cabbages, a bunch of apples, some potatoes and two rather
big bowls made of clay.

She carefully placed them into the wooden cart, very very carefully. If she broke anything she would
just end up beaten up again. No thanks. Really, no thanks.

Once they were done, Geoffrey nodded into her direction before stomping back into the house.

He sometimes sent shivers down her spine. She actually had no idea how old the guy was. Her guess
would be late thirties or early forties. His face was covered by a brown beard that started to go grey
on some places. She honestly couldn't understand how her mother could like kissing him with that.

While he had a lot of hair in his face, there was a lot less on his head. Putting aside his receding
hairline, his hair was rather short and just... ew. Geoffrey really hated washing his own body. That
you could not only see but smell as well. Whenever his hair had grown a little it would look greasy
right away. You could probably fill a barrel with the oil emitting from his body. Once again, ew.

His eyes were too close together and they were in a light-brown colour. His eyebrows were so thick,
sometimes she thought he only had one – right across his face. His nose was a story for itself, too. It
was long and big. And you could see his nose hair pretty much all the time. Gross.

He had thin and pale lips, his face sometimes reminded her of a distortion. His ears just made him
look even more pathetic, they were waaaaay too big and looked like he could use them to fly off like
a bird.

Giggling at the thought, she decided it was time to leave now.
Gripping the two handles of the cart she had to use her whole body weight to move it from its spot in
the grass. That was always the most annoying part. Once she had it moving, it was usually at least a
little easier.

After she finally got the cart moving and down the grass, she carefully dragged it through the streets
of the small town. The cobblestone working in anything but her favour.