Part 2: Speaking in tounges isn't my forte...

Nobody ever asked about me, even the people I was forced to call “mother” and “father.” I would have given just about anything to actually have parents; people who actually cared about me, instead of just taking care of me because it “helps their position in the community.” I was nothing more than a tool, and knowing I was so, hurt more than being neglected.

 

They let me live in this shack in their backyard, which was barely made up of three walls, and it wasn’t really living. They brought me 3 meals a day, and only allowed me in the house whenever one of their upperclassmen friends was over. Then, I was to sit up straight, show and give proper manors and etiquette, then forced back into the shack when they were done with me.

 

“Be where you are suppose to Emily,” Cathryn said, as her and her husband walked in the front door 5 minutes earlier than I planned. I was standing at the front door, holding it open as they entered with armfuls of grocery bags and clothing bags.

 

The family liked to shop a lot, and always spent well over a respectable amount of money on each trip.

 

“Okay,” I said slightly arrogantly, wondering if they picked up on that in my voice. I felt a rough hand grasp my arm and spin me around, coming face to face with Cathryn’s husband, Michael Rowley.

“We’ll talk about your attitude problem later,” he said, shoving me out the front door and slamming it behind me.

 

“Attitude my a*s,” I said, walking past the front windows, taking one last glance at the beautiful garden as I walked, slowing as to savour the beauty. The garden was my safe place that reminded me of the rolling hills of my old home. The Rowley’s never allowed me in there, but I went in at night, while their noses were high in the air, and deep in slumber.

 

I would water the garden, and tend to the plants that were being neglected or that weren’t getting enough sunlight. I would sit in there for hours until the sun rose, when I would dash back to the little crap shack that I called home.

 

To me, this would never be a life worth living, which is probably why the Rowley’s were keeping me in therapy. That or they enjoyed the amount of attention they got from their fellow rich neighbours that I was good for a few years.

 

I closed the rotted out shack door behind me, looking out of the biggest hole towards the garden, still imagining home, and how warm everything was. It’s not that it was very cold here, but it was nearing winter, and the temperature dropped dramatically by nights.

Some nights I couldn’t sleep because I would be shaking so vigorously that sleep was impossible. Every so often, the family would have to bring me in so I wouldn’t die from the low temperatures, but other than that, they just let me fight it out.

 

I turned back to the place I called my bedroom and sat down on the spoiled old mattress that stunk of dirt and age. The springs creaked at I sat, releasing a cloud of dirt and dust into the air, causing me to choke and cough violently.

 

Some days I wished I would get so ill that the family couldn’t deny me attention anymore; they would have to spend money for a doctor, a hospital bed, maybe even let me sleep on the couch in the winters. It wasn’t like I was asking for much, just to sleep on the couch in the winter; I wasn’t asking for money, or even food or medicine, just a place to call home.

 

I lost myself in these thoughts of what I wished for, what I dreamed for.

 

Yes, every night I would dream of a heavenly place that I could call home; a small house by a river. It would have one bedroom, one bathroom, and one kitchen, just a one person house. I would have heat, a stable roof, water whenever I wanted, and I would plant a garden.

 

I would plant tomatoes, watermelon, beans, onions, everything and anything I could get my hands on. I would treat the garden better than anything in the world, and I would treasure my little piece of home.

I heard the door swing open, my eyes darting towards the unwelcome guest. It was Mr Rowley, coming to give me some form of punishment, a cigarette in his mouth.

 

“You need an attitude adjustment girl,” he said angrily, grabbing me by the hair and lifting me to my feet, grinding my teeth at the pain. He held my face back by my brown hair, which had now fallen from its perfect pony tail, as he lifted the corner of my shirt up, revealing a scarred hip.

 

He took the cigarette from his mouth, and put it out on my hip, a small yelp escaping through my lips.

 

When he first started this, I screamed for minutes on end from the pain, but now it felt like nothing more than a burning paper cut. This was something I grew to handle and tolerate, but at first I wondered why he didn’t burn somewhere more sensitive and painful, like my face; wouldn’t that be a better punishment in his eyes? Then I learned that I was nothing more than a prize to show off, and his prize needs to have no imperfections.

 

Well, no visible ones anyways.

 

He released my hair, falling down onto my sad excuse for a bed, burning more as it was exposed to air. He starred at me with some look of dissatisfaction on his face. He wanted more? He never had, which left me in wonder as to why he hadn’t already left by now; normally, after he burned me he would yell something then leave.

 

“That’s not good enough,” he said, his voice almost nothing more than a whisper among the sound of the crickets chirping along with the darkness that was growing in the corners of the sky. I wanted to ask what he meant, but by the way he looked at me, hungry for a fight, I dared not speak. The words caught in my throat as I watched him pace back and forth in the small space in front of the door.

 

“I know,” he said, finally stopping the taunting pacing that was becoming annoying the longer he did it. He threw his cigarette out the small hole of the door, and grabbed me by the arm, throwing me through the door before him, landing painfully on the ground.

 

I felt an ache in the middle of my arm as I let out another yelp of pain, trying to bring myself up off the ground to face whatever he had to give me. I had such little hope in fighting back, that I kind of hoped he would get the shotgun and end me right then and there. Then again, since when did anything ever go my way?

 

After a moment, I was back on my feet, facing the greenhouse, unable to look over at Mr Rowley and his angry expression. I felt him grab me by the neck and swing me backwards into his shoulder, no sound escaping my lips as I smashed into him hard. He began to whisper something to me, something I couldn’t understand. It was like he was speaking French or Spanish, it was that bad.

 

He tossed me to the ground, landing painfully on my knees, and walking away, scoffing something under his breath as he went.

 

I watched him walk all the way into the house, before quickly shuffling back into my crap cabin, and throwing myself underneath the thin blanket, slowly rocking myself into an oblivious slumber.