CHAPTER 3 - DIARY ENTRY 146

It has been days since the last rain fall. Not that it would change anything but at least it would be cooling. Working, day after day, in the fields is tedious and unbearable without a drink of water every now and again. But all of our free will was stripped from us long ago. Limited water. Only scraps of food whenever 'he' felt we deserved it - which was rarely ever. For most of us here, the jobs STILL haven't changed, despite his many reassuring promises. Field farming, coal mining, cattle ranching, catering etc etc etc etc etc. I've been one of the lucky ones in that sense. I, at least, get a variety unlike most. Most days, however, I'm in the castle tending to his every whim. The swine. I cook for him, I clean the floors, the windows, the frames of the many MANY portraits he has of himself - spread vigorously across each wall. It's as if they all have eyes, I swear I see them watching me. I even wash, dry and iron his goddamn clothes. My gowns and frocks have been replaced by tatty overalls and a crappy apron. My tiara? HA! No idea where or who he sold that too. He probably needed more money for another ruby for his crown.

I have no friends anymore. I used to have a close hand of people that I could converse with on a daily basis. But, to be expected, he has scared them off. Threatening that if any of them distract me from my work it would be their heads. I don't even know if he has ever beheaded anyone...but I wouldn't put it past him.

Myself and mother had preferential treatment, so to speak. We were his 'favourites'. Only because we reminded him of his victory all those years ago. A victory we would love to long forget. But alas, it was not meant to be. Father was a great leader, a great friend to all and an even better father to my siblings and I. A day wouldn't go by without him telling us he loved us. The more I think about it, the sadder it becomes. He said he loved us as if he knew the end was nigh; always with a tear in his eye and fear in his heart. From a young age he taught us how to defend ourselves. All of his children showed skills in some form. Despite being so busy, he would always make time for us. He was always there when we called.

I miss him.

I don't even know what made me think of him today. It may be the anniversary of his death. It may not be. I've lost track of dates. All I know is that we are still waiting. And we will continue to wait until they return. As the years go on, mother's hope dwindles a little closer to despair. She believes them dead. So do I to be honest. For them to survive it would have been a miracle. I wouldn't blame them for not returning. What they seen, and at such a young age, would give anyone nightmares all the way into adulthood.

Mother has changed as well. The sparkle in her eye is gone and she barely speaks. Even to me. All I hear her say now is 'Yes, sir.' 'No, sir.' and 'Sorry sir.'. She constantly feels like guilty, as if she is always walking on egg-shells with him. The way he treats her is insufferable. He 'pretends' she is his wife. I try to stay close to mother for as long as I can each day; I'm terrified to leave her alone with him. I miss her stories, her singing, her jokes, her childlike humour and her love. She is a mere shell of what she once was. I fear I have lost her for good. Only they can bring her back.

Alas, we must press forward. It is what father would have wanted. What they would have wanted. We must stay safe and, more importantly, alive if we are ever going to reclaim back what was ours. What am I saying!? What still is ours!

I've had hope for 7 years. I've been praying for 7 years. I've been recording in this diary for 7 years. Yet I have not been acknowledged. I won't give up. I swear to you father you will be avenged.

I pray, Let them return home soon. Or this torture will never end.

Signed,
Pricilla