I was locked in my room as soon as I arrived on the estate.

Later that day servants came back and stripped everything. They removed the blanket, the toys, the furnitures… They barred up the windows from the inside and barely leaving gaps for the light to filter through. All they left was the mattress.

For a while no one came. Not even Goldie. Once a day they cracked the door open just enough to leave some food by the door, mostly leftovers or stale bread.

I miss Goldie and Darkie… Hopefully they’re both safe.

After a few days of isolation, my father came to the room, but I did not move.

In his hand was a horse crop.

At first he only spoke to me. Thinking speaking would make him hit me like the Bishop did, I remained quiet, but that was a vain hope.

He hit me regardless.

Many times.

I couldn’t have counted if I tried. My skin felt like it was on fire. Long red streaks covered my body and split in places.

He left the room only to come back with my 3 siblings in tow. I lifted my head hoping for them to help me. All I saw were the horrified looks. My father started telling them something angrily. The expression on Ela and Knox's faces turned to anger while Dalton exploded into tears. My father took the horse crop once more and hit me. He then handed the crop to Knox. He hesitated for a moment. He said something to me.

[Please don’t do this, knox. Please please please don’t hurt me.]

He screamed something else at me, but I didn’t know what to respond, and so he hit me.

He asked me something else.

[I… I don’t know]

I shielded my face but he hit me again.

Once, twice… Too many times.

Then came Ela. She didn’t bother to ask anything, she took the crop and hit me even harder and longer than Knox with only spite in her eyes.

Then came Dalton’s turn, but he was still crying.

Ela tried to give him the crop, but he refused to take it. She tried to force it into his hand, but he wouldn’t grip it. Father did not hesitate and struck him across the cheek. He pulled him back to his feet and gripped his shoulder while yelling at him. He then pointed at me and back to Dalton, took the crop and forced it into Dalton’s hand before pushing him in my direction. He looked at me with only tears in his eyes.

As my father kept screaming, he finally struck me.

He could only manage three hits before collapsing into tears.

Father grabbed him by the arm and carried him out of the room followed by my two other siblings, slamming the door closed as they went.

After they left, all I could do was cry on the floor as blood dripped from the bruises all over my body.

I didn’t get any food that night.

Three days later, my mother came to the room. To my surprise, she did not strike me or even scream at me. She simply stared at me in contempt until the sun set and then she left.

I didn’t get any food that night either.

Days came and went vaguely.

Sometimes my father came and screamed at me or hit me, other days my mother came by and simply stared at me.

On those days, I rarely got to eat unless it happened much before sunset. Even then, the food I received could barely be called as much, often stale or moldy or cooked days before and cold.

The only thing I could do was walk around the room.

I discovered rapidly that if I tried to speak or made too much noise, I could expect a visit from my father that afternoon, so it was all I could do.

My balance improved, but the dizziness still came and went. The intermittent missed meal and sore bruises did not help, but I still kept practicing.

I couldn’t think of anything concrete, but I had to run away. I had to practice for when the opportunity arose, I could leave this place for good. Not that I thought I could go very far on my own, but even becoming a beggar would be better than this.

Time went by and the temperature became cold. With no wood or matches, I couldn’t start a fire in the chimney and so I could only try to keep my limbs warm by snuggling into a ball. I couldn’t sleep properly anymore.

I would wake-up at all times of the day and night in sweat thinking my father or the Bishop were coming to hit me again. My mind constantly imagined the door opening or the floor trembling from their footsteps.

The door opened again.

It was my mother this time. She never struck me, only stared silently for hours on end. It was still nerve wracking since I was forced to look at her the entire time or I could expect my father to come too later.

This time was different though.

She was speaking. Not screaming or shouting. She didn’t even have an angry expression, only contempt.

She continued for a while until the sun started setting.

She stopped speaking and looked at the light filtering through the boards on my window. She said something toward the door. She stood still for a moment, looked at me and then turned toward the door again.

As she put her hand on the doorknob, I let out a sigh of relief.

I might not be getting a meal tonight, but at least I could finally rest… This thought was a fatal mistake.

My sigh must have been louder than I thought, because she immediately took her hand off the handle and brought it to her side.

She stood still in front of the door with her back to me. I waited, unsure what she was doing.

Suddenly she rushed toward me.

I tried to run away, but my feet tangled up and she wrapped her hands around my throat.

She squeezed as hard as she could, choking me.

Nothing could come through.

I could feel the blood boiling in my head and my tongue stick to my throat. My lungs started burning and I could feel my eyes going to the back of my head.

As the sides of my vision darkened, she released me. As I gasped for air, she slapped me, making me gag on my own breath and sending me into a coughing fit. I tried to get to my knees, but as I was folded over gasping for air and coughing, she kicked me in the stomach, making me throw up what little was left in my stomach. In what oozed out from my throat, I could see scarlet stains.

She forced me to face her and slapped me over and over again. Until my eyes could barely open.

I’ve had enough.

Gathering all my strength, I kicked her chest. She lost her breath long enough for me to pull myself away.

I looked at her and just screamed. Screamed all my emotions away. My anger, my sadness, my pain. Raw uncontrolled fury. My bruised throat felt as if daggers rubbed along it.

At first, my mother looked at me with the same spiteful expression, but that emotion quickly faded away and gave way to fear. She tripped backward as she tried distancing herself from me. I started screaming louder and louder and to my delight, she looked not only scared but in pain, holding her head between her hands. She struggled to her feet and ran out of the room and slammed the door behind her.

Finally I did it. I stood up to them.

As I had that satisfying thought, I lost control of my body, and my mind went blank before I could hit the floor.