Disclaimer: I haven't done one for a while so I don't any of the characters from CSI, just the ones I make up.
Thank you so much to anyone who has read this story and thank youso much those who took the time to let me know what you think and it really makes a difference... Thank you so much to:
Ally-617-luv-tv, Silent as the Grave, icklebitodd, Cherrydrops12, SaraStar, Dybdahl, dark-girl-faith-sidle, ayesha84, forensicsgirl97, pigeonofdoom
x's to all of ya...x
Dybdahl- hiya, I haven't actually seen the film but I wrote a few chapters ago that was inspired by events ect…and it was things like the 'fallen' girls I was inspired by because I watchedadocumentry andwas pretty shocked by itso that's pretty much how this started.x
Icklebitodd- thanks for the reply to the A/N from the last chapter…and the review part too…but extra thanks because I was so worried that it would offend someone I don't want to do that at all…also I loved the 'quick sand' thing…thank you x
forensicsgirl97- yeah they checked…thank you for reviewing x
ayesha84- tons of smiles (sort of) in this chapter…it won'tlastx
Pigeonofdoom- heya. Thank you so much for review so quick…like I uploaded the chapter…went away for a few minuets and its like 'you have one review' and I was like 'nifty 'so thank you x
Thank you again to everyone who reviewed/reads... It makes me happy. Next chapter will be up at the weekend and its the last one in this part of the story.
Hope everyone has a great week x x x
Not all the nuns were as cruel, and the one that ran the kitchen was wonderfully nice and said that she would teach me how to bake. I grasped at the small ray of kindness. One day six of us were summoned to the kitchen, as some visitors were expected the next morning. We used to call the visitors 'posh heads'. Myself, Doreen who was 13, Joan 12, Michelle 14, Liz 12 and Sylvia 11 went to the kitchen to help make brown bread and fruitcakes. While we were working, the Reverend Mother suddenly came in and told me I was to go work in the day room. I told her I did not want to because I wanted to stay in the kitchen, with my friends. I don't know how I managed to stand up to her, maybe it was because I was so beaten down that I did not care what happened to me anymore or maybe that bold girl they kept talking about was coming out. What ever it was, I felt no fear.
"Have it your way," she said and she left me there. Stupidly I thought I had won but a few minuets later she sent for me. As I entered her office, the Reverend Mother's eyes were on fire with anger. She was twisting a black leather strap through her hands and told me to shut the door behind me. Fear bubbled and hissed in my stomach.
I saw nothing but the strap and her fingers gripping it. I couldn't stand the sight of it and so I looked down at the floor that I had washed and shined on my hands and knees so many times before; my penance that I now knew was not wasted. I was going to be punished. There was an awful silence and she screamed, "Look at me, you bold girl. Look at me."
I could her cruel, black voice echoing all over the room. I wanted to scream back at her but I knew that it would do no good. I thought I was going to wet myself and my legs wouldn't stop shaking. Her anger was everywhere. I slowly brought my eyes upwards to the leather strap in her hands and then to her face.
I was paralysed. I saw reflected in her eyes the same rage that my father's always display before her began to beat me. I knew exactly what was going to happen. I could smell it coming through the pores of her cold, clammy white face and I could feel the heat from her breath. I saw her hand slide down and grip the end of the strap.
"I am going to teach you never to speak like that again. You will not defy me," she said.
I felt my breath coming in short gasps and my heart began to beat rapidly in my chest. She asked me to hold out my hands and told me that if I pulled away I would get five extra slaps. I put my hands out and the reflexively pulled them back. My knees and legs were shaking. She held my hands on her desk so I could not pull them away, then she began to beat them. The pain was unbearable and my hands ended up red raw as the Reverend Mother rained down the blows until, she was panting for breath and with sweat rolling down her forehead, she ran out of energy.
My hands were on fire. The pain ran up and down my fingers. I thought they were broken and my heart ached in the same way it did after my father's beatings and a voice in my head ran saying, "I don't deserve this. I am only a child. I am a good girl. I know I am good." I wanted the beating in my heart to stop, I wanted to disappear. I wanted to die.
She told me to go back in to the kitchen and I did. My hands were becoming numb. That's what happens: first fiery pain, then numbness and when that wears off, unbearable aching. While I held back during the punishment, I cried as I walked down the corridor. Back in the kitchen, the only consoling words I got were from Sylvia, who told me, it would be all right and that I would get used to it. How could any child get used to a beating like that? My despair grew as I listened to her as I realised that there was more to come.
After a few days, the redness on my hands turned black and yellow and it seemed as though the pain would never go away. They didn't get a chance to heal properly as I was put to work scrubbing and washing and shining the floors. With every move of the cloth and the bucket, my hands ached anf the opened sores oozed pus after they became infected from dirty water and raw bleach. Every day I looked at my hands and I would cry. I didn't know it then, but it that single incident would cause me to go in to a dream-like state every time I injured my hands as an adult.
Time passed and it was cookery day again. By now I had become angry about the way I was treated and I suddenly saw my chance to take revenge. The five girls and I were working at the wooden table, each of us given our own task. I got the job of putting the milk into a big chrome jug.
The nun in charge of us went to the pantry to get a bowl of flour. This was my opportunity. While she was gone I took a big bar of carbolic soap from the kitchen sink. It was kept in a while dish that had blue pattern. It had a strong smell coming from it. I turned the tap on and put the soap bowl in the sink. I slowly rubbed it between my hands until lather formed. The more I rubbed, the more suds came out. When the dish underneath was full of soapsuds, I gently picked up the dish and poured it in to the jug of milk, then mixed the suds in with a wooden spoon. I put everything back in its place and quickly returned to my seat.
The nun came back with her flour and placed the bowl on the table. "Now, girls, we will have eggs first, a pinch of salt and then we will add the milk," she said. When it came to add the milk she told me, "Gently does it. A little drop at a time."
As I saw the suds merging in the mixture, my heart leapt and the girls kicked each other under the table with delight. The cake and bun mixtures were then out in the oven. We all left the kitchen and went to hall for our evening meal. The talk in the dormitory later on was all about what would happen when the lethal baking was eaten. I'd hadn't seen so many smiles at one timein that place and the laughter was fantastic.I was seven and I felt brilliant.
That evening, the nuns gorged into a feast of cake and buns. The following day, the kitchen crew were called in to the Reverend Mother's office. She told us that seven or eight of the nuns had been very sick during the night and those nuns affected were the ones who had eaten our pastries. Joan asked what had happened to them and she replied, "The poor nuns have been on the toilet all night with diarrhoea and I want to know which one of you caused it."
None of the girls opened their mouths but we knew it would only be a matter of time before I would suffer the pain of the Reverend Mother's wrath and she had no problem in working out that I had been the one responsible. We later learned that the nuns who had fallen sick had spent three days and nights on the toilet. It was delicious.
I was told that I was to be made an example out of and I paid dearly for what I had done. For some time, I was immersed in freezing baths twice a week until I was blue and the tips of my fingers were numb. I would shake for hours and felt I would never get warm. But even while I was being put in the bath, I was planning what to do next.
The punishments made me coming out of my shell really quickly. I was here to stay and despite everything, I knew I had to survive. I was becoming an expert at scrubbing the floors and defying the nuns. We made our own fun and had some good times, despite the punishing regime. I would march up and down the recreation room, pretending to recite the rosary in the manner of the nuns. We mimicked the way they walked and talked, and then fell around the room laughing. If we were caught stepping out of line, however, the nuns would stop us talking to each other.
One particularly vicious nun used to take great amounts of pleasure in punishing me when I misbehaved. She would make me drink glass after glass of water until I felt as though my bladder was about to explode. I would be so desperate to pee and I would beg her, "Sister, Sister, please let me go to the toilet. I am going to pee on the floor." But she would just stand there looking at me before saying, "You disgusting little creature. You would, wouldn't you?" She would keep me there so long that eventually I would have to let go and feel the burning humiliation as the hot urine ran down my leg and in to a puddle on the wooden floor. That was the excuse she was waiting for to beat me. Then she would make me clean up the mess.
The few nice nuns who were good to us were as afraid of the regime as we were. The Reverend Mother told them that they were far too lenient with us and that the girls were here to learn discipline and to be punished or their sins. We were constantly reminded that we were sinners.
Just as I was starting to get used to the harsh routine of the school, things took a horrible turn for the worse. Some of us were given the duty of helping the priest out before and after Mass on Sunday morning. I was given the job of clearing the religious implements. At first the priest was kind and said that he would help me to get back home. Liz, who also helped the priest, told me not to talk to him but I didn't know what she meant.
After a short while, however, he began to pester me when Mass was over. He started by touching meand then when he was finished he would wipe himself with a tissue as if my dirt was burning his fleshy hands. Liz and I were his main targets. When I complained to him, he said, "Well you want to go home, don't you?" before reminding me not to tell anyone what had been going on.
Two days before Christmas Eve, the Reverend Mother sent for me and I went to the office. She asked me to close the door and then opened the big book on the desk, looked at me and told that I was going home to my home for Christmas. I was to be ready to leave that afternoon. I stood there in shook. I could not talk, tears rolled down my face. The ugly old witch then said, "When you came here, your cried for weeks and now you are crying because you are going home." She gave me a look of contempt and raised her voice, "Get out of my sight. I don't understand you."
And she was right, she didn't understand me. I was crying tears of happiness, as I could not believe I was going home for Christmas.
The nun who had brought me here back in the spring came to collect me at about midday and the Reverend Mother walked to the door with us.
"We will see you when you return, two days after St Stephen's day." It didn't register what she was saying. All I could think about was that I was going home. I got in to the car and as we drove away down the long avenue, I looked back at the building and I shuddered as the car turned out of the entrance and onto the road that would take me home.
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