She laboriously crawled back up to her room, desperately trying to ignore the spasms of pain racing through her muscles. Her father had punched her repeatadly in the stomach until she had doubled over in pain. Once she was on the floor he continued to kick her until his big black boots created large, round gashes in her legs. The blood from the wounds in her leg had left hideous dark stains on her already dark jeans. Due to the dark color of her pants, the stains seemed as harmless as spilled milk.
After a while, when her screams had become stifled by her raw throat, her father grew bored and ordered her to clean up the blood she had left on the kitchen floor. Then and only then was she allowed back into the sanctity of her room.
She quickly changed out of her blood stained clothing and threw them into an empty laundrey basket by the door. Once she had cleaned and dressed her wounds, she toilsomely limped over to her window, as she usually did when she was feeling at her lowest. Her eyes were drawn to her usually vacant chair where a freshly picked white lily sat, not yet in bloom. The flower was so simple, but yet, so incredably beautiful and magnificent. It was so pure, and white, and flawless, that it almost seemed to glow. She was almost afraid to touch it. It just didn't seem right for her hands to fall upon it's perfection.
She reached out for it, but her hand paused. She held her breath as her hand brushed up against it's faultless stem. It felt slightly warm to the touch. But how could that be possible? The room was freezing. Her father never payed the heating bill.
How could it have gotten there? It was if by magic...
Algoma put the lily in a crystal vase that had been her mother's. It was one of the few posessions of her mother's she had managed to hide from her father. She had a couple of her mother's things that she kept under a loose floor board in her room. She had the vase, her mother's hair brush, a tattered old photo of her mother, and a book of stories her mother had written.
The vase was beautiful. There were tiny roses carved from the crystal that wound their way around the vase until they reached the top where a larger rose sat in full bloom. The thorns on the stems were sharp to the touch and Algoma had pricked herself on the treacherous carvings more than a few times.
The hairbrush was exquisite. It was made of silver with small flecks of gold. The gold swirled around in slender lines around pools of silver that folded upon themselves creating shining ripples that sparkled in the sunlight.
The tattered photograph was the only way Algoma could ever know her mtoher's face. She had never met her mother, so she was unable to call upon any memory of her. All she had was the photograph. From what she could tell, the picture had been taken when her mother was fairly young, and to Algoma, she was the prettiest woman she had ever seen.
Algoma longed for her mother's beauty and thought it unfair that she gained many of her physical attributes from the man she so despised. Her mother had long, golden hair that fell upon her shoulders in beautiful, flowing waves. Her skin was like porcelin, fair and flawless. Her body was long and slender, and she had the kind of smile you only see in toothpaste commercials. Algoma on the other hand had short strawberry blonde hair that refused to hold a single curl. Her skin was fair, but it made her look more sickly than beautiful. (This due to her father keeping her locked in her room.) Algoma is neither long nor slender. Not to say she is fat, but more that she is quite short which makes her legs seem quite small and stubby.
The most important part of her mother that Algoma possesed was the book of stories her mother has written. She had found the book in the trash when she was seven. The bright, happy pictures on the front had drawn her attention to it and she knew that she had to save it. The stories had always helped Algoma to keep going when she was feeling at her worst. They were so happy and magical, it was impossible to read one without having a smile on your face by the end. Everyday she wished life could be the way they were in her mother's stories. She wished everyday for her own happily ever after, and she never gave up hope that it would happen. It was the only way she could keep going.
She put the vase on the nightstand beside her bed. It never even occurred to her at the time what her father would do to her if he were to see it there.
Algoma was fast asleep when she heard a crash. Thinking it was her father, she dove under the blankets in a pathetic attempt to hide. Her heart stopped in her chest as she listened carefully for any noise in the room.
The beat of her heart sounded as if a giant were playing hopscotch inside her room. Her head began to pound as she anticipated her father's approach.
After a few moments of silence she peered out from beneath the safety of her blankets into the darkness of her room. Her head slowly rose from the pillow, her eyes scanning the room for any foreign objects. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, they scanned the room a second time and then a third.
There was nobody there. Her heart began to beat again at it's normal pace. However there was a slight change in the room that her careful observations had failed to notice. It was not until she felt the breeze upon her cheek that she noticed the window was open. The rustling curtains created ghostly shadows across the bare floor in the light of the full moon.
She pushed the blankets aside and climbed out of bed. The cool air sent chills down her bare arms as she approached the open window. She wrapped her arms across her thin tee-shirt, attempting to keep warm from the cold night air.
Before closing the window she stared up at the night sky and the thousands of tiny stars winking at her. But one in particular stood out to her. It was twinkling much more than the other stars as if it were almost restless. She stayed by the window studying the vast night sky before she finally tore her eyes away.
Puzzled by both the open window and the restless star, she turned back to her bed.
As she walked back to her bed she noticed a second change. The lily was now in full bloom. But how was this possible? It had no roots. It was freshly picked.
On further examination of the flower she realized it's full beauty. The beautiful simplicity of the flower was breathtaking. It seemed she could stare at it for hours, gettiing lost in it's beauty.The petals seemed to be made of silk and the yellow inside seemed to be made of spun gold.
Her fingers hesitated as she reached down to stroke the soft, flawless petals. They were the softest things she had ever felt before. The flower is the essence of perfection.
She walked back over to the window and found a dozen more lilys. These were a deep scarlet that were absolutely beautiful, but could hardly be compared to the pureness and the simplicity of the white one. How did they get there? She was just by the window a moment ago and the lilys had not been.
She checked the window and second time and upon seeing that it was still securely latched, she turned around back to her bed.
Due to fatigue, she simply shrugged it off and placed the bouqet in the vase along with the white one and went back to sleep.
The next night Algoma went to sleep with the shape of an iron printed onto her back. She had been ironing clothes when her father walked in. He started shouting and cursing at her. Then he threw her on the floor and pressed the iron into her back. She cringed trying not to scream, knowing that if she did it would just cause her more pain.
She tried lying down on her back, but jumped back up yelping at the pain.
"Whats wrong?" The sweetest, most wonderful voice she had ever heard filled her ears with the simple, childsh question. It was a boy's voice that sounded as sweet as honey and as smooth as silk. It was a voice that could make a person melt where they stood.
She quickly turned around searching for the source of the voice. She slowly scanned the room, but still she saw nothing.
"Up here."
She looked up and saw a boy who looked roughly her age sitting on top of her bookshelf. All she could do was stare at him with an open mouth and wide eyes.
He was gorgeous. He had sandy blonde hair that hung down to his shoulders in loose curls. It was messy and uncombed, which made him look innocent and sweet. His eyes were blue pools that just sucked her in. They made her forget all of her worries, and made her happy and carefree. It was imposible to look away from them. They held the very essence of innocence and childish happiness that she had long forgotten existed. He looked scrawney, but not weak in the least.
He wore a green hat with a long red feather in it and as he floated to the ground off of the bookshelf, he proceeded to remove his hat and dramtically bowed before her. "It's a pleasure to meet you. My name is Peter Pan."
She was thoroughly afraid of the doe headed youth that stood before her, no matter how cute he may have been. The point was that there was a strange boy in her room who had just magically floated down to the floor.
He could see the fear and confusion in her eyes and before she could scream, he ran up behind her faster than you could blink and clamped his hand over her mouth. "Please don't scream. I dreadfully hate it when girls scream, it's such a horrible sound."
Her eyes were open so wide she was afraid they might fall out. Who is this strange boy? Is he going to kill her?
"Now when I take my hand away, do you promise not to scream? I swear I'm not going to hurt you. Cross my heart." He proceeded to childishly cross his fingers and make a cross across his chest. He looked into her eyes as he said this and she could see nothing but innocence in his eyes.
She nodded her head yes and he slowly took his hand away from her face.
"Wh-What are you doing here?" She timidly asked him.
"I saw you crying. I thought I might cheer you up."