AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hi! Thanks for coming to my new story. It is my first attempt at posting a story. I want to tell you a bit about this story before you begin it, and then I promise that after this chapter, the AN's won't be so long!
This story comes with a WARNING! It will include abuse, specifically between a parent and a child. This story has a dark element from the very beginning, but I can promise you right now, I 100% plan for this story to be a HEA! You have my word! With that being said, it will be a long process to get there.
I had planned to write the entire story before beginning the process of posting it, however, I came to the decision to post the first chapter earlier than planned. I want to see what type of reaction it gets before I get too far into it. I have about seven chapters already written, so depending on how this chapter is reviewed, I will be posting once a week.
So, that's pretty much it. This story will have abuse, but I also plan for lemons later on ;). It is a Bella Edward story, though he isn't introduced until around 3/4 chapters in. It will have alternating POV's between Edward and Bella, but I don't have a specific pattern or order that they appear in. Each chapter will have it's specific character's POV included in it's title, as this one does.
Please do review, let me know what you think. Honestly! Is it too dark, too angsty? Is it too detailed, too complicated? Do you want to read on? Is there anything I should change? Like I said, this is my first attempt so I'd really love to hear your feedback!
One more thing; I am British but this story is set in America. If there are any terms or vocabulary that I incorrectly use, then I apologise in advance and would appreciate you telling me so I can correct it and know for the future. Thanks!
Well, that's it. Here's my first chapter... after a little disclaimer and the summary!
Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all connected to it. I only own this story line and any characters not included in her original saga!
Summary: Life works in mysterious ways. It has a way of helping you when you think you are helpless. Bella hasn't had an easy life. Left with only one unloving and abusive parent, she lives day by day wondering when the next brick will fall from her ever crumbling life... Enter Edward, the boy who has it all. Or does he? Follow them as they fight the inevitable friendship and maybe more... Warning: ABUSE... and maybe some lemons ;) ... AH story.
I'll Always Find Peace In The Meadow
Chapter One: 'Her obedient slave' (Bella POV)
Saturday 8 April 2017
With a sigh that clearly speaks of my exhaustion, I slump down into my dining chair. Staring down at the plate of food in front of me, I feel my stomach churn. I'm hungry (almost so hungry that the God-knows-how-old half a sandwich I'd found under my mom's bed, with spots of green mould starting to appear on the hard pieces of bread, thirty-five minutes ago looked appetising) yet the pizza slice on my plate causes bile to rise in my throat. With it's blackened crust and dry dough - there is literally no tomato sauce on what is supposed to be a cheese and tomato slice of pizza - it has the ability to put the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles off of pizza. For life.
With a gulp, in an attempt to swallow back the nausea I'm feeling, I slowly pick up the slice in my right hand. It's cold. Great. I sat down fifteen minutes after my plate was put onto the table. My mother, who is sat opposite me crunching away at her fourth slice of burnt pizza, "forgot" to call me to the table once it was ready.
I'm on rations tonight - punishment for arriving home late, albeit two minutes late - and for once I feel happy about it. I won't have to force down any more than this one piece thanks to my punishment. This isn't the first time my meal portion has been decreased in size, and it won't be the last. Usually it's a harder punishment to handle because I've had to cook the meal that I'm not getting much of. But tonight, Renee - that's my mom - cooked it, and it shows in the quality of the food. She's got no skills in the kitchen anymore, probably because it's been so long since she cooked a proper homemade meal.
As I chew the tough, stale tasting pizza, I think about what I'd have been eating had I made it home on time. If I had arrived home three minutes earlier, I would have been the one to make dinner tonight - like I do every night. I would've thrown together a curry, or perhaps some fajitas. It depends on what's in the cupboards. Just the thought of any other food besides this almost inedible pizza has my stomach grumbling. Loudly.
It's my own fault. I know my mother's rules. I'm not to miss curfew - straight home after work on weekdays, 5:30pm on Saturdays and 4:00pm on Sundays - and I must do all the chores expected of me, which is pretty much every damn chore in the household. I can only go out on the weekends if I finish most, if not all, of my chores beforehand - if I don't finish them then I have to give myself enough time once I'm home (whether I choose for that to be before or on my curfew) to finish them off.
It's been this way for around five and a half years now. I'm used to it, for the most part. I've had no choice but to get used to it really. It doesn't even bother me most of the time... well, not anymore. There's just the odd day where I make stupid mistakes, like today. So stupid...
I lost track of time doing what I love to do the most: nothing! I was at my place; the sun was shining down on me, I had my headphones on with music playing, my eyes were closed, and I just lost all sense of time. I was in my own little world... until a song came on that I wasn't in the mood to listen to. I picked up my cell phone to skip it, and only then did I see what time it was. Only then did I start freaking out. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. I should've been checking the time frequently, like I do most days when I'm out having 'me' time in my place.
My place... it's the most beautiful place in the whole world. Anyone to lay their eyes on it would fall in love instantly. I remember my first time seeing it like it was only last week, when in fact, it was actually nearly four years ago. I remember every detail of that day, the lead up to finding it, and then the moment I finally saw it for the first time. I remember all of it vividly...
Flashback - Thursday 24 May 2013
My feet slap against the concrete slabs that are our porch steps as I storm out of our house. I can hear Renee screaming my name from inside, warning me not to leave, "or else". A part of my brain, the part that holds all of my self-preservation and intelligence, is begging me to turn back and just face the punishment I'm bound to recieve. Compared to the one I'll face for ignoring her, turning back seems like the more sensible option.
The more stupid and less rational portion of my brain, however, is willing me to stick to my guns and carry on forward like my mother isn't scaring away the birds and squirrels from the trees around our house with her shrill voice.
I listen to the more stupid and less rational part of my brain. I don't turn back. I keep my steps forward facing, pick up my speed, and walk to my simple grey-framed bicycle that's chained up to the mailbox post at the end of our small front yard. I thumb the keys from my coat pocket - luckily I'd thought to grab my coat, and my backpack, from the bannister as I ran from the upstairs landing - and fumble through the task of unlocking the chain.
I'm on my bicycle and down the street by the time my mom has made it to the mailbox. When I glance behind me just before I turn the corner to leave her sights completely, Renee is looking scary enough to shrink that more stupid and less rational part of my idiotic brain a little, with her face flaming red and her fists clenched in undeniable anger.
I don't know where I'm going exactly, just that I'm... going. I want to leave. Leave my home, leave this town, leave her. Everything is so messed up and I don't even know where it all started going wrong.
That's a lie, the more sensible and smart section of my brain reminds me.
Yes, it is a lie. In truth, I do know where it all went wrong, but I'd rather not think about that at all.
I cycle and I cycle, gaining speed with every rotation of the pedals until my legs can't pump any faster. Tears are streaming down my face, blowing this way and that with the wind as it streaks past my biting cheeks. I try to hold my sobs in, not wanting to cause myself to fall from the bicycle, but it's no use. After I-don't-know-how-long, eventually the tears filling my eyes blur my vision too much, and I fall. My bicycle skids away from me, scratching agaisnt the tarmac of the road as I hit the floor with an agonising 'thud' and a partial slide. That's going to leave a mark, I think to myself, grimacing through the tears. Good thing I know how to mend myself. It's not like I haven't had the practise.
Luckily I've landed on the very edge of the road, not in the middle and in harms way. I inspect my knees and hands, and when I see no damage on them (the scrapes are on my hip and elbow; I can feel the open wounds stinging as they press against my clothes) I carefully, and clumsily, climb to my feet. I stumble and wobble as I stand slowly, and when I go to pick up my bike a few yards away from me, the sight of an opening in the treeline that borders this specific road stops me in my tracks.
I'm bent at the waist, my fingertips barely brushing the handlebars of my bicycle as I stare down the road that seems to have just appeared out of no where. It's at an extremely acute angle in the trees - so acute, in fact, that it's practically impossible to see from the direction I was coming from, and it would definitely be impossible to see at night. I try to think back to all the times I've travelled this road and how I've never seen this opening, until I actually look around and realise I don't recognise this road.
But I know where I am.
Forks, located in Washington State in the Pacific Northwest, is my hometown and the only place I've ever known. It's surrounded by, and in some places submerged in, trees and trees and more trees. Forests encase Forks like a thick green cuccoon. It's a very small town. It's one of those towns where everybody knows everybody. All the kids go to school together and their parents went to school together and their parents probably went to school together, too. Gossip is a vital cog in the social machine here, and if anyone new shows up, it's known by every member of town before the newcomers have barely even pulled into their driveway. Because it's not a very large town, travelling from one place to the other doesn't take long at all. Every person of Forks has most likely seen the entire town and all that it offers, which, to be honest, isn't much.
But, with that being said, if you travel far enough east, you'll find yourself in a part of town that no one ever really sets foot in. It's a long winding sideroad - a road that leads no where. If I were to continue the way I was heading before I fell, I'd have eventually hit a dead end, supposedly.
I've never been down this road myself, but I've heard of it. Teens come down here on dares every now and then, though most of them probably never go through with it; there's a rumour that the bottom of this road, the dead end, is haunted - by what, I have no clue - and it gets so dark because of all the overgrown trees that the forest comes alive and swallows you whole.
It's a load of rubbish, and I know that, which is why I'm curious enough to want to see what's really down there. However, my twelve-year-old self is even more curious about the opening in the trees and what could be down there. I try peering down to the other end, but the trees that border either side of the road eventually engulf it in darkness.
I waste no time in hopping back onto my scratched but still usable bicycle, before cycling down the road. My heart is hammering in my chest as I venture down the mysterious road. My hip stings and nips painfully with every push and pull of my pedalling feet, but I work hard to ignore the pain and force my way through. The darkness disappears as I reach it, the daylight filtering through the overhang of branches and leaves from the tremendously tall trees up above me. It lights the way for me.
After at least a full minute of hard-core cycling, the road expands left and right, providing a wide expanse of paved ground. My eyes slowly raise and my mouth drops open in awe as I see what stands at the end of the long, mysterious road. The paved ground is a drive way, though in my opinion it's too big to simply be called a drive way, for a humongous house.
It's the biggest house I've ever seen in person. Bigger than the Mayor of Forks' house! From the front it appears to have two floors, just as a normal house does, but those two floors seem to be twice the height of a regular house's. The walls are tall, and placed in a weird format. It's not a simple four walled, square house. There's a long wall at the other end of the drive way, where it finishes, that has two garage doors side by side, one longer than the other. The wall above that only has a couple of small windows that cut into the roof of the garage, or what I'm assuming is the garage.
The rest of the house then comes off of the 'garage' at a 90 degree angle. There are so many little walls jutting out that it would be impossible to explain in an understandable way. You'd have to see it for yourself to fully appreciate the magnificence of it. The walls all end at different distances from, rather than in line with, the front door. The whole house has steeply pitched roofs that lay both vertically and horizontally. The rubblework white stucco walls and half timbers that are exposed on one or two of the walls give the structure a really ancient feel. It's complicated... but it's magnificent.
I lean my bicycle up agaisnt a tree on the outskirts of the driveway, drop my bag at the front wheel, and mindlessly start walking towards the house, looking around as I do. Trees surround the property, though that isn't much of a surprise with it being in Forks. Close to the house the grass is thick, slightly overgrown, but the gorgeous deep pink flowers that sprout from between the blades of grass make the property even more beautiful. I wouldn't want to cut the grass, for fear of destroying the lovely flowers. I can hear the distinct sound of water, like there's a river or stream close by, probably somewhere amongst the copious amount of trees.
As I finally look up at the house once more, I start to wonder what kind of family would live here. It'd be a large family, if the size of the house is any indication. The dad and older kids could play soccer out here, at the front of the house, while the mother and younger ones could sit on a blanket on the grass over there with a picnic. I can feel my cheeks straining with the megawatt smile on my face.
However, my cheeks slowly relax, my smile falling away as I get close enough to the house to touch the wall with an outstretched hand. What if a family already lives there? My brain disrupts the wonderful images my imagination was conjuring up.
Damn brain! But... what if?
I quickly step up to the closest window, but it's too high up above my head to look into, even if I jump. Now feeling cautious, I tip-toe round to the right of the house, breathing a sigh of relief when I see a window that's lower down the wall than the one at the front. I stop below the window, about to stretch up on my tiptoes to see inside, when I notice a steep dip in the ground about two thirds along the right wall I am currently stood at. The grassed land curves downwards, sloping until I can't see it. Further ahead I can see more grass, and more trees at a lower level of ground to the front of the house.
I shake my head, silently telling myself to get on with the task at hand. After peering inside, it becomes extremely clear that no one lives here. From the little I could see through this window, it's bare in there, void of any belongings at all. And from the little I could see, the house is as wonderful on the inside as it is on the outside. I do a mini victory dance, happy to not be breaking the law and trespassing.
Wait!
Someone owns this land... which means I'm still technically trespassing. My happiness fades away rapidly as I take another look around, this time checking for anyone that could catch me here. When it's obvious no one is around, I don't feel any less guilty. With a longing look in the direction of the back of the house, I sigh and turn away, begrudgingly walking back to my bicycle. My curious twelve-year-old brain wants to know what's down the dip in the ground about two thirds along that right wall. But as much as I want to, I know I can't take anymore risks.
I'm about five-feet from my bicycle when my eyes catch sight of a gap, larger than all the others, between two of the tall trees that stand opposite the house, on the other side of the giant drive way. The spaces between each of the trees are fairly normal as far as forestry goes. The gap that caught my attention is almost double the size of the others. It's quite hidden by low hanging branches and the thick leaves, but if you're looking at it from a head on approach, it's not too difficult to spot.
I step up to it and poke my head through the gap. An obvious trail begins at the gap between those two trees, and disappears into the forest. I consider my options for a minute or two...
Option A (which is inevitable eventually): go home and face the wrath of my mother, who I defied on a major level, and recieve my punishment(s).
Option B: leave here and cycle around Forks until I can't stall any longer and have to result back to Option A.
Or, Option C: follow this trail and see where it takes me; have an adventure. Option A can wait a little longer.
It doesn't take me long to decide. I go to step forward until my safety finally registers in my brain, which is so clouded by the thought of an adventure I hadn't even thought about the possibility of getting lost. Feeling saddened and down trodden at the realisation that I can't stick with Option C, unless I want to lose myself in the forest with no one who knows where I am to come find me and I die of starvation or dehydration or hypothermia or I get attacked by a wild animal, I head to my bicycle.
I'm swinging my bag onto my back, grimacing at the tort stinging on my elbow from my injury, when the zip of my bag somehow comes apart, silently unzipping. All of my belongings spill out onto the ground at my feet. I'd be angry, feeling even more mad at the world, if the large bundle of yellow ribbon strips that comes tumbling out of my bag hadn't caught my eye.
Earlier today, in an art lesson, we had to use some coloured ribbon. Each person had to choose one colour to use. I wanted the dark blue, which was limited, but Michael Newton staked his claim to that first. I was so hung up on not getting my dark blue ribbon that soon, most of the other colours had been taken, too, until I was left with the yellow.
I'd been sulking all lesson - I hate yellow - so by the end of the hour, I was no where near being finished with the assigned work. Miss Lydia, our art teacher, told me to take it home and bring it in completed the next day. That art project is what I'd been doing when my mom stormed into my room and demanded to know why I hadn't put away her clean clothes in her drawers and wardrobe... it's the reason I ran out today.
My hatred for the yellow ribbon is all forgiven when the most brilliant idea I've ever had comes to mind. I scoop up the bundle of ribbon, not caring about all my other belongings, and run to the opening of the newly discovered trail. I enter, my heart pounding in my chest - this once for a good reason. I follow the path of the trail, or at least what I'm hoping is the path of a trail, tightly tying strips of yellow ribbon around branches as I go, marking my route. I feel like Hansel when he drops a trail of bread crumbs to follow home. I just hope birds don't come and destroy my ribbons the way they ate the crumbs poor Hansel and Gretel were planning to rely on.
I'm not sure where I am going, or what I'm hoping to find. I don't even know if I'm actually planning to find anything. This adventure is a bit pointless, but it's fun and beats going home and facing her.
I'm walking between trees now, on no particular path. I kind of ventured from the trail about five minutes ago, opting to take yet another risk and make my own path. It's okay; I have the ribbons, I tell myself, but I'm still nervous.
I've been walking for a total of about fifteen minutes, I'd say, and I'm close to running out of yellow ribbon, when all of a sudden I trip on a large tree root that's protruding from the earth. I fall, rather ungracefully, to the ground, landing on my front and just barely dodging a mouthful of dirt. I fell into some type of bush on the way down, one that just had to have thorns. The slight fresh sting on my left ear and right cheek are proof I didn't make it down unscathed.
Keeping my face close to the ground, and my mouth tightly shut, I belly crawl under the thorny bush until it's safe for me to stand on the other side without snagging my hair or clothes, or God forbid more skin whilst doing so. I stand, stumbling slightly, as I do a self-assessment. Dirt has marked my clothes and skin. Great! Another thing for Mom to be mad at. I sigh unhappily as I brush off the dirt as best I can.
Finally, I look up. And all the air leaves my lungs. The sight before me is... well it's magical. Absolutely stunning. I can't believe what I am seeing. That nasty, painful bush - just an ugly bunching of twigs and thorns and leaves - was hiding the most beautiful place in the whole world. It's even more beautiful than the house I discovered no more than half an hour ago, and that's saying something.
It's amazing... wow!
I've landed in a meadow. A breathtakingly beautiful meadow. It's a large secluded open field, scattered with eye-catching flowers and blooms. They litter the ground with bursts of colour; a variety of purple, pink, blue, yellow and white flowers. Then, of course, there's the dominating colour of green. The long blades of grass that fill the meadow, the leaves on the trees that surround the meadow... they all contribute to it's wonderful colour spectrum.
Before my thoughts can catch up with my actions, I'm walking deeper into the meadow. I take thoughtless steps forward, getting closer to the center. When the sun reaches me, warming my skin, I look skyward and it is then that I realise how the sun rays hit the meadow so perfectly, like a spotlight. The sun is focused directly into the center of the meadow, where I am now, and it only enhances the stunning view all around me.
I want to cry with glee. It's so magical. So perfect.
I don't want to leave. Ever.
That's when I really do start crying. I cry because of what I've had the chance to see in person. I cry because soon I'll have to leave it behind me. I cry because of my life, and what it's become after... No! Don't think about that!
I take deep, calming breaths and wipe my eyes and cheeks dry. I don't know what time it is, I don't have a cell phone like some of my friends at school and I forgot my watch at home. I sigh, turning to face the way I'd entered. It's quite obvious from this side of the bush. The disastrously thorny thing is the ugliest plant in the entire meadow, yet from inside the meadow it's still beautiful. Nothing, not even a dangerous bush such as that one can ruin this place.
I begin slowly walking towards the exit, taking relentless, longing glances around the meadow, attempting to soak as much of it into my memory as possible. Once I can't prolong the inevitable any longer, I leave. I don't try to crawl underneath again. Instead, I take a few steps back in preparation, grit my teeth, count to ten, and just run at the bush as fast as I can.
I make it through fairly uninjured, just a few scratches on my hands and forearms. Luckily it's not a dense shrub, or else I'd probably have gotten stuck half way through. The density of it is most likely how I fell through it so easily, too. The branches parted a bit as I ran through, so maybe it's two bushes that have grown really close together?
I take one last look at the meadow's entrance, feeling a heaviness in my heart I've only ever felt three times before today, at times I'd lost someone incredibly precious to me. This time, it's a something. As I follow my strategically placed yellow ribbons, it feels like I'm leaving a part of me behind. It feels wrong.
At some point on my walk back to the house, and my belongings, I make a vow to myself: I will come back here, to this house and to the meadow. This won't be the last time. And next time I come, it'll be the first of many visits.
Two days later I have a few hours to myself, and that's when I return to the road that leads to a dead end. I don't stop and think this time, I just immediately turn down the long road that's at an acute angle and cycle all the way to the massive house. I stay, staring at the house for a few minutes, letting my imagination run wild again, before I head into the trail.
The yellow ribbons have stayed mostly, only a few have come loose, fallen off and disappeared. It's not too difficult to work out where to go without the missing ribbons. For the rest of those few hours I have free, I walk back and forth, back and forth along the trail.
I come back the next time I have a free couple hours, three days later, and again I walk back and forth. By the end of that second visit back to the meadow, I've memorised the trail. I know the way to my place off by heart, as if I'd known the way my whole life.
End of Flashback
My meadow is the only place I can feel completely safe and at total peace. There is no where else in the world that can provide me with the serenity that my meadow does. I call it my meadow, my place, because as far as I'm aware, nobody else knows about it. Nobody. In all the years I've been visiting my meadow, I've not seen another living soul anywhere near it, and I'll be over the moon happy if it stays that way forever, and then some.
It's mine.
It's the place I go to when I'm having a bad day, when I'm feeling down and need some time alone, which is most of the damn time. I go to my place any chance I get. But between school, work and the demands of my home life, I don't visit it as often as I'd like.
Weekends are the only time I really get the chance. On weekdays, once I've finished school I go to work. And once I've finished work I have to come straight home. That's one of my mother's rules. When I'm not at school or work, I have chores to keep me busy. My mom likes the house to be spotless twenty-four-seven, but she doesn't maintain this goal herself. It's down to me. On weekends, the days are taken up with chores and homework. If I'm lucky I'll get a few hours to myself on a Saturday and Sunday, which I use to my advantage and escape to my place.
When I'm at my place, I like to do several things. Sometimes I do nothing but listen to my music, like I'd been doing today before I realised the time and rushed home. Sometimes I read. I'm quite the bookaholic. My love of reading stems from my grandparents, who both attended a book club together for most of their lives - it's where they met actually. However, more times than not, while at my meadow I like to write in my journal.
I've been keeping a journal for years, ever since I was 8 years old and could write full sentences that made actual sense. My grandmother got me into journalling, just as she and my grandfather had gotten me into reading. Journalling was something Nana Swan had done since she was a little girl. She'd kept them all, every single one. They are now stored in several metal boxes (because there are too many to fit in just one), locked away and safely kept under my bed. I've never read them, I wouldn't dream of delving into the privacy of her mind and thoughts like that, but knowing they are there is like having a piece of her still with me.
In my journals I write my thoughts and feelings. It started out being only that. It started out as a pass time to write what I had been thinking that day and how I'd felt about certain things that had happened. As the years passed and I grew older and more comfortable with writing in these journals, the contents of them progressed.
It changed from me simply putting black ink to paper at the end of each day, from writing more of a diary than a journal, to eventually scribbling thoughts as soon as they came to me. I started using coloured pens and adding sketches around what I'd write, though they were all pretty awful. It's progressed so much that I'm almost never without my journal now. If an idea for a book I'll never write or a funny sarcastic remark at something I see enters my brain, I write it down in my journal as soon as I can.
I also write poems, and those poems often lead to song lyrics. It's a secret obsession of mine. I'm as much into my music as I am my reading and journalling. I can play the piano pretty well. I took lessons from the age of five, for about five years. My teacher called me a natural, and I still try to play as often as I can, though just like the visiting of my meadow, I don't get to do so nearly as much as I'd like.
I tried playing the guitar, too. My father could play to some extent. And his father, my Grandad ChaCha (his nickname for two reasons; A, Cha is a really shortended version of his first name, Charles. And B, he was freakishly good at the ChaCha Slide), could play the guitar like it was an extra limb attached to his body, like it was a part of him. But I wasn't a natural at guitar, and besides, the lessons stopped before they'd barely begun.
Even though I virtually keep my journal with me at all times, my favourite place to write is my meadow. It's where I feel most at home, most free to do as I please. It's where I feel most comfortable. If I compose a new poem or song, I like to read and sing them out loud. And I can only do that at my meadow, where I have complete privacy. I like to do this because it's nice to pretend my father can hear me. He passed away some years ago. He...
I like to think he can hear me, that he's watching down on me and that he's proud... even if there's not much to be proud of. There are times when I'm sat in the center of my meadow, singing or speaking to him, and the soft breeze blows stronger or the sun seems to brighten ever so slightly. It's at those times I truly believe that he really is listening to me.
I have no other place to speak to him. I know some would say that his burial site is an option, but I just... can't. I can't go there. The last time I stood at his grave was at Nana Swan's funeral. She was buried in between my father and her beloved husband, my Grandad ChaCha. After her burial, which was less than eight months after my dad's own funeral, I stood at his graveside. I put flowers down, cried for a while, said one or two things, and left. I've not gone back since. I've tried, but I never make it past the Cemetery gates.
The meadow is the place I feel closest to him. And as long as I have that, I won't need to go to the Cemetery.
"Isabella!" Renee's impatient call of my name drags me out of my thoughts. I look up from my plate to look at her and I am met with an ice cold gaze. "Are you going deaf as well as dumb, child? I've been calling your name for ages!"
"I'm sorry," I respond immediately, my face flushing red, "I was... daydreaming."
She rolls her hazel eyes and tuts loudly. "Well, daydream in your own damn time. I shouldn't have to wait for you to acknowledge me when I'm in need of your attention," she snaps. I look down at my lap, chastised. "Now, are y--look at me when I am talking to you!" My head jerks up, obeying instantly. She gives me a pointed look, silently telling me to behave, before continuing, "--are you going to sit there staring at your plate for the rest of the evening, or are you going to get up and tidy this away? You aren't going to be getting any more food, so you can think again if you were hoping to get another slice of pizza. It's your own fault. You shouldn't have broken your curfew."
I stand silently, keeping my eyes on the table and away from her judgemental watching gaze as I stack our plates and pick up the pizza tray that has half a burnt pizza still sat on top. I carry it all through to the kitchen and get started. I bin the remaining pizza, knowing Renee will want something entirely different for dinner tomorrow evening - she'll never accept leftovers - and then start doing the dishes.
As I sink my hands into the scolding hot dish water, I think about all that I've had to do today. After getting up this morning at 8:00AM, I made my bed, had a bowl of cereal for breakfast and a quick cup of tea, before getting dressed and starting with my usual Saturday chores.
I gave the bathroom a thorough clean, which I do every Saturday. I bleached the toilet, emptied the cabinet above the sink and cleaned all the shelves in there before putting everything back inside to polish the mirror that's attached to the front of the cabinet door. I then cleaned the sink, and finally the bath tub along with the shower head that hangs on the wall at the head of the tub. All of this I had to do as quietly as possible, as just down the hall, Renee was fast asleep. She usually wakes up around 11:00AM on a Saturday, giving me enough time to get the bathroom all nice and ready for when she needs to use it. I'm thankful we only have one bathroom in the house, and that it's not a very big one.
After that I went downstairs and started making a full English breakfast, Renee's favourite, which was ready by the time she came downstairs, freshly showered and dressed. With no greeting, just a grunt that I always accept as a 'thank you' from her, I left my mother to eat while I went upstairs to make her bed, and then spend a couple of hours on my homework.
At around 1:00PM I began with the next thing on my Chore Chart. It's old and my child-like handwriting from when I first created it isn't as easy to read anymore, but I've been doing these chores for so long that, to be honest, I hardly have to look at it now.
I was eleven when Renee dumped the tasks of the housekeeping on me. She didn't do it in a subtle way. She stopped me from going to my room one day after I got home from school, sat me down, and pulled out a crinkled piece of paper from her pocket. On it was a list of chores, chores that she now expected me to do. My eleven year old brain couldn't quite believe it...
Flashback - Friday 13 January 2012
I sit on the dining chair opposite Mom. My heart is beating a little faster than normal, as I know that when she sits me down at the dining table to talk, it's about something serious.
She sat me here when she told me that my goldfish died when I was five.
When I was six, my dad sat beside me at this table while he told me that we didn't have enough room for a grand piano, like I'd wanted - this seemed serious to me.
At seven, this is where my parents told me we wouldn't be going on our planned trip to Disney World in Florida because Grandad ChaCha was ill.
And this is where I was sat when the police told me that my Dad was gone. Forever.
I wait as patiently as I can for my mom to start talking. "Isabella," she begins. She stopped calling me by my preferred name, Bella, a few days after my dad's funeral, almost fifteen months ago. "I've come to the realisation that I am going to need some help around the house. There is too much for me to do all by myself, and seeing as you are the only other person here to help me, I am going to need you to pitch in."
"Okay."
"Here's the list of chores you will have to complete, starting from Monday," she tells me, reaching into her pocket to pull out a folded piece of crinkled paper. She passes it to me with a smile. I smile back at her as I take it, but my face quickly falls when I see just how much is on the list, and what jobs she wants me to do.
"C-clean the toilet? ... Vacuum? I'm not even tall enough to use the vacuum yet!"
"Don't be ridiculous, Isabella. You're over exaggerating. You're perfectly capable of using the vacuum. And cleaning the toilet isn't as bad a job as it sounds."
"Then why can't you do it?" I ask, my voice small. Mom's jaw clenches as she sighs.
"Because I have other, more important jobs to be doing. I don't see what the problem is. You must have friends that do chores at their homes?"
"I do, but-"
"Well then," she interrupts, "stop complaining. You've had it lightly here. I've never asked you to do anything besides keep your room tidy. I think it's time you started doing more."
"But why do I have to make your bed?" I ask, appalled after noticing that amongst the many other chores on the list.
"Because it's a tedious job that I shouldn't have to waste my time doing." She shrugs. I sigh but nod slowly. "Any questions or are we done here? There's a rerun of 'The Real Housewives of Cheshire' that I've recorded. I'd like to get a few of them watched before I have to... actually..." she stops mid-sentence, a thoughtful look on her face. "Give me that!" She stretches forward to snatch the paper from my hands. Pulling a pen from her pocket, she starts scribbling something down. Soon, she's passing the list back to me. I look down at it and can't stop my jaw from dropping open when I see what she has added.
Cook dinner
"W-what? ... When?" I stutter, flustered. She says nothing. "Every night?" I ask, fishing for an answer. I'm astonished as Renee nods happily. "B-but... I don't even know how to use the oven! Or the stove! I can't make dinner for us every night," I protest.
"Isabella Marie Swan, do not argue with me! You can and you will." With a face like thunder, she stands up with enough force to send her chair screeching agaisnt the floorboards. I stand quickly, too, clutching the list in my hands as I follow her out of the dining room and into the family room.
"Mom, please. I can't cook. I don't know how." I beg. She stops suddenly and turns on her heel, glowering down at me.
"Well you better start learning then, hadn't you? There's some ready-made meals in the fridge. They'll be fine for this weekend. And then, Isabella," she softens her voice, bending slightly to place her hands on her knees, bringing herself closer to my height, "you can go and use this wonderful invention called the Internet. It'll tell you all you need to know about what to do in the kitchen." I ignore her condescending attempt at sarcasm.
"B-but... how? How can I do all of this," I stress, holding up the list, "and learn how to cook? I have homework, too! Miss. Davenport said we mustn't hand our English worksheets in late or we'll get detention. And she never lies! How will I do it all?" I'm exasperated now, trying to desperately make my point clear to my mom. Can't she see how much time this will all take?
I don't give up.
"And I was going to start reading Nana's copy of 'Little Women' this weekend. The one Daddy got her for-" my words are cut off with a slap across my face. My head whips to the side. My left cheek is burning, and tears have sprung to my eyes. I gingerly bring my hand up to cup my cheek. I dare to raise my watery eyes to my mom's face, only to be met with a furious gaze.
This is the second time my mom has hit me. After the first time she looked shocked and sorry. She apologised to me three hours later. This time, however, I see no shock. No remorse or apologies. She just stares at me with anger boiling in her eyes.
"You want to read? Fine!" She wraps her fingers around my left wrist firmly, and yanks my hand away from my stinging face. Pulling me along behind her, she leads me to the kitchen. Her grip is tight. It feels like my arm is going to come out of its socket. She drags me through to the far side of the kitchen and stops us by the metal-framed shelving unit that stands agaisnt the wall at the top of the basement stairs. "Here!" she growls, pulling me forward with so much force that when she releases me, I go slamming into the unit.
I cry out in pain, my chest and hip bone taking the brunt of the impact, but it's like she doesn't hear me. She's too focused on hauling one of the heavy hardcover cookbooks off of the top shelf. She shoves the book into my chest, giving me no warning, but I manage to raise my arms in just enough time to catch it. Before I know it she has turned to grab another one and deposits it into my now trembling arms. "Here you go," she snarls, "read these! They'll be much more useful than those silly fiction books Evelyn made you read."
Nana didn't make me do anything, I think to myself. And the loathing with which she says Nana's name makes me want to hit her.
"In fact," she mumbles to herself, "these will all be helpful. You love reading so much, have them all." She stretches up and swipes all the cookbooks from the top shelf to the floor. They land at our feet in loud thuds. I flinch as I jump back, dropping the two books I'm holding in the process.
"Now," she sighs, placing her hands on her hips, "I'm going to watch my programme. I suggest you make some kind of plan over the weekend for your chores, which you will start from Monday. I would like to eat dinner before seven o'clock, please.
After you've picked all these up, of course." She gestures to the pile of books. I nod silently, trying to keep the frown off of my face.
She reaches out towards my face and I flinch, scared she will hit me again. She smiles at that, and I think I see a hint of smugness in her eyes, but I'm not sure... That, or I don't want to believe it. She tucks some of my long brown hair behind my ear, and strokes the side of my face. The side she slapped.
Tears spring to my eyes. Not because I'm happy my mom is showing me affection, something she hasn't done in months, but because her eyes show nothing. As she strokes my face, there is no love or kindness. There's just... nothing. Her eyes, her face, hold no emotion. It's like she feels nothing when looking at me. Not anymore.
She pulls her hand away, points to the cookbooks once with a stern expression, and then walks around me, exiting the kitchen. I pick up the books, and use a chair I dragged from the dining room to reach the top shelf. Luckily I know how to use the microwave, so I heat up something for us to eat, and then head up stairs to my bedroom. I don't resurface from my room for most of Saturday. That weekend I do just what my mom said to do; I make a chore chart.
End of Flashback
When I was given the list, I had no idea where to start. I didn't know how often certain jobs needed to be done or how to even do some of them. So, I used my mom's sarcastic advice and went online. Using the information I found, I worked out a plan for my chores. In a highlighted box at the top of the chart I wrote all the chores that would need to be done daily. Then, I assigned weekly chores to each day of the week, spreading them out to make it easier. And the ones that, according to the Internet, needed to be done in monthly intervals, I spread out over a four week period.
It took me most of that weekend to create this chart. It took much planning and many attempts before I got it just the way I wanted it. It took so long that I didn't leave any time to do my homework, and in the end, I got that detention from Miss. Davenport for not handing in my English homework. When my mother found out, even though I had told her about Miss. Davenport's warning, she punished me. It was my first punishment from my mother - I was banned from reading any of my books for a week - and it definitely wasn't the last punishment.
It's the first Saturday of the four week cycle, which means that today's monthly chore was cleaning furniture. We basically have two living rooms, which means double the furniture. One at the back of the house, and one off the right of the entrance hall, at the front. The front one is the room I have known as the 'family room' my whole life. Now it should be called 'Renee's room'. She's not-so-subtly claimed it as her entertainment room. In there is her sofa and her TV, as she so eloquently put it to me several years ago. I just use the back living room now, when I have the time.
I went round the house, cleaning and polishing all the wooden furniture: coffee tables and end tables, the dining table and the wooden frames of the chairs, television stands, shelves, wardrobes, chest of drawers. I vacuumed the sofas, all of which are fabric. I had to wait for Renee to leave the family room for a while before doing any cleaning in there, so I didn't get in her way.
And after I did all of that, I finally threw myself through the shower rapidly, got dressed into something a little more suitable for the outside world, and went to my meadow. As I've already established, I was late home - by two minutes - and then did some homework until Renee called me for dinner, fifteen minutes late.
I finish washing the dishes and let them drain for a little while as I clean and wipe down the kitchen counter tops. Afterwards, I dry the washed dishes and put them all away. I give the kitchen a once over, making sure everything is in place before turning off the kitchen light and heading to the front room.
I stand beside the tan leather three-seater sofa and wait for Renee to acknowledge my presence. I stand there for a whole ten minutes, until her episode ends. Only then does she turn to look at me, with a sigh, like she was just the one left waiting. She raises an eyebrow silently. "Do you need anything? I'm going to the back room to watch a movie," I tell her, before quickly adding a customary, "if that's okay with you."
"You can go watch a movie after you've gotten me a bowl of that vanilla ice cream that's in the freezer. Toppings, too." She turns her attention back to the TV, ultimately dismissing me, so I nod and turn to leave. "Oh," she exclaims from her lounging position on the sofa behind me, "a bottle of wine as well." I hold in my sigh as I nod, before leaving the room.
As I pick out a bottle from her well-stocked wine cupboard, I grimace in disapproval. I've noticed over the years that it's gone from "Isabella, go get me a glass of wine," to, "Isabella, go get me a bottle of wine." And she doesn't just ask in the evenings anymore. Some days she'll demand a bottle with her lunch, and who am I to tell her that that is too early? I keep being her obedient slave and get her the wine as and when she wants it.
I make her a large bowl of the vanilla ice cream, put the bowl on a tray with a spoon, as well as the several bottles of different flavoured sauces and the tubs of sprinkles and small chocolatey toppings she's requested. I carry the tray through first, my stomach growling loudly at the sight of the dessert, before I run back to the kitchen to retrieve the wine bottle and a glass. Renee doesn't look away from the screen as she balances the tray on her lap. I pour her a glass of the wine, place it down on the end table beside her and leave the room silently.
After getting changed into my pyjamas, I go to the back living room and put in one of my favourite movies, 'The Fault in Our Stars'. The book is way better, as is almost always the case, but this movie is still a very good adaptation of the book in my opinion. It's rare for me to come in here and watch a movie so late. I can't remember the last time I actually did this. It's been a while. I'm usually up in my room, doing homework or reading or journalling, but tonight I'm just too tired to do any of that. When it's one of my monthly chore days, I tend to be more tired by the end of it.
I lay down across the green two-seater sofa that's in here, curling my legs up and resting my head on one of the throw pillows, hugging another to my chest.
I shouldn't have laid down, because just after Hazel comments to Gus that Vanessa must be in pain from Isaac's intense boob groping, I doze off.
~I*A*F*P*I*T*M~
"Wake the fuck up, you stupid girl!"
I'm startled into consciousness by the sound of Renee's fury-filled voice, which is extremely close.
"Wake up!"
I blink and look up. Stood towering over me, in between the sofa and the TV, is Renee. "Sit up! Now!" she demands, not giving me a chance to obey before she tangles her fingers in my hair, painstakingly close to my scalp, and pulls me into a sitting position. I cry out, reaching up to my hair and her hand instinctively.
"How dare you waste my money like that!" She's screaming in my face, her hand still very much wound tightly in my hair.
"Huh?" I ask dumbly, the tears that have unsurprisingly appeared causing my voice to tremble.
"You! Leaving the television on while you nap! Lazy bitch. Are you the one paying the electricity bill?" I attempt to shake my head, no, but her grip seems to tighten further. "Do you want to be?"
I gulp back the lump in my throat. "No," I strangle out.
"Well don't waste the electricity like that again, or I will take the bill charge out of your incomings," she states, gripping infinitely tighter before finally releasing me. I keep my eyes at her feet as I rub my sore scalp. "Turn everything off and lock up. I'm going to bed," she says, calmer, but with anger still lacing her words. Once she's gone I just sit in the middle of the sofa, letting a few silent tears fall, before I wipe them away and do as I am told.
A/N: Please review! Let me know what you think! I'd love some feedback. Are you intrigued? Do you want to know more?
Thanks for reading! Depending on the response I get, I plan to post a chapter every at Monday (also depending on how fast i write new chapters!
Bye for now!
- BlueEyedBrit