Chapter Two
A Prisoner Of Hate
After my banishment from the outdoors, Mother notified the school to let them know that I would be home-schooled, telling them it was because of family reasons. Her home schooling, if you could even call it that, was less than satisfactory. Fortunately, with the help of the books and supplies provided by the school, I was able to teach myself the majority of what was going on. Had I been in school, I might have been intelligent, but then again, I don't even remember my own name...
Father died when I was nine years old. For the first time in years, I was able to leave the house. His funeral was brief, but the few breaths of fresh air were heavenly. In a way, I saw this as Father's parting gift to me. Of course, the only reason I'd been permitted to go was as a sign of respect. Had I not gone, Mother believed that I'd be getting away with my hatred towards them. I must never be allowed to show my feelings of either of them. Mother had loved Father with all of her heart, which left no room for me. Still a dreamer, I thought his departure might reunite me with Mommy.
Nonetheless, while it was Father's body that left the house, it was Daddy's face I saw in the casket.
~*~*~
By the time my thirteenth birthday was approaching, I'd completely given up on the hope of Mother ever loving me again. Father's death, in fact, seemed to make her hate me even more. The chores increased, the expectations grew higher, the beating got worse.
I counted down the days until the time I'd become a teenager. Mother never acknowledged any of my birthdays. To her, they were just another day. On any day, she might sleep until noon, waking up only to get a drink and to see that I've completed my chores to perfection. If I haven't, she takes great joy in thinking up punishments to soothe her sick-minded hatred. Her favorite punishments include locking me in the closet, which is damp and only one square foot in measurement; forcing me to swallow ammonia, which forms a bubble in my throat and almost suffocates me, though she always pounds on my back to get me to burp it up; and whipping me with the dog's chain or a leather belt until I bleed. By now, my skin has become toughened to the beatings, and my brain has become numbed to the physical pain, but she never fails to hurt me in one way or another. Sometimes she even starves me for days at a time. The longest she ever had me go was a week and a half. By the last day, I was so exhausted that when I'd attempted to climb the steps, I fell right back down before I even made it up face boards. Finally, Mother brought me down a single piece of cold pizza. I savored every morsel of it.
"Well, aren't you a special little shit?" She snapped when I mentioned my thirteenth birthday. "What do you want me to do about it? Make the heavens rain down with gold?"
I didn't pester the subject. Secretly, I hoped she might let me have a real meal, and maybe, just maybe give me leeway on my horde of chores. I couldn't have been more wrong.
I woke up early, that day. I knew I had to get the morning chores done, or there would be no breakfast at all. I scrubbed the kitchen counters until they gleamed, I mopped the floor twice and then waxed it, I made sure there wasn't a speck of dust in site. I would have made Mother breakfast, but I'd knew nothing about cooking. As Mother figured, the less I knew about food, the less likely I'd be able to feed myself to my satisfaction. If she ever suspected I took food without her permission, she'd force me to throw it up into a bucket anyway. I never got very good at lying, mostly because of my fear of her.
Noon comes and goes. I've done all of my chores, but now I'm getting nervous. I continue cleaning only to keep myself busy. I don't stop until my third round of scrubbing the bathroom floor. I stand and glance at myself in the round portrait mirror. I haven't indulged in images for at least a year. My hair is a long, tangled, silver mess. My eyes have are crimson orbs with dark circles underneath them. I'm beginning to realize why Mother tells me I'm so ugly.
I slowly climb the stairs and peek into Mother's room. It's empty. I shiver in new fear. She never leaves me alone, she doesn't trust me.
I hurry back downstairs, afraid that at any given time Mother might return and catch me in her room. I sigh and take my place at the bottom of the basement steps. I hate myself for how well she has me trained.
There was a loud slam upstairs, and I realize that she's returned. I creep up the stairs and peek out the door. Mother is leaning on the wall breathing heavily. She is more drunken than I have ever seen her before. Her eyes are red and glazed over, which I can see even through the cracked open door.
"Get up here, girl!" She demanded. "NOW!"
I crept through the door and trotted over to her. I know punishment is coming. She has me trained like the military to speak one word only sentences. "Yes?"
She points to the most minuscule of smudges on her mahogany table. I hurriedly wipe at it with my sleeve. "WHAT are you doing?! Use a damned rag, girl!" She yanks me up by the back of my shirt and throws me towards the kitchen. I hurry to please her. It doesn't work.
By evening, my back is covered with deep gashes, curtained by crusted blood. I lay on my couch in tears. Somehow I strain my voice to whisper shakily to myself.
"Happy birthday to...me... Happy birthday to ... me... Happy birthday, dear ... dear..."
I don't finish the song, because I don't know what I should fill in the blank with. In an hours time I fall asleep, but tonight I don't sleep to dream. Tonight I will sleep to escape.
