Daisy (Part I & II)

Chapter 1 - Abused Baby

Daisy

In the far corner of the basement, is the of dribbling of water drops leaking from the aged rusty pipes. The sound of the drips echo as they come in contact with the freezing concrete ground. That is all I can hear, it is the only sound in this compact space that is my room. This happens every time it rains or snows. The constant drip of the water drops puts me at ease, the sound soothing and reassuring. If it is quiet enough to hear the drops that means it is safe. Well, for now at least.

Winter is fast approaching, the compact window looks out to the front of the small street. All of the leaves have fallen from the trees piling down into piles of yellows, reds, and oranges. Even without the window I know that winter is approaching because the ground is cold, the air is heavy and damp, and the sunlight beams through the window one hour less than it does in the summer. The only thing I have to keep warm is my tattered blanket littered with holes and stains from never being washed.

I have only ever known this basement, I have never dared to go up the stairs and out to whatever is behind that door. The door that I anxiously watch every second I am awake. I sleep in the corner opposite to the leaking pipes. This is where it is warm, well, warmer. Across from where I rest is the bookshelf. There is at least two-hundred books lining the shelves. They range from murder mystery to dictionaries. They are my only source of entertainment, I have read every book over and over again until every piece of the dialogue is memorized. My favourite book is Charlottes Web. It doesn't fail to make me sad every time I read it. If I didn't have these books I don't think I would be able to read. I've never been to school, doctors, or the park. I don't know anything about the world outside of this basement, and I am not sure if I even want to know, because what if everyone is like mama? What if everyone's mean? What would I do? I don't think I would be able to take it.

Mama hurts me a lot. I don't know why she does it to me because I always try my hardest to be good. I stay silent, I let them do what they want to me, and I never put up a fight. I don't each much or drink a lot of water. All I do is try to be good. I don't know why it is my fault I get beat. I guess I am bad. They give me these rules to follow which I do, but sometimes they have rules they don't tell me and punish me afterwards for it. I break their rules and make them angry. Maybe it is just me, maybe I deserve it.

Last night mama and my step-dad came down to hurt me while I was sleeping. I woke up from a kick to my gut. They told me I am not allowed to be asleep when they come home. If I knew that this was a rule I would've followed it. But I didn't know, I didn't know. Every part of my body hurts. My stomach aches and my head, arms, legs and even my back burns from the impacts of their fists and feet. I think it hurts more than usual because my body hasn't healed enough since the last time I was bad. I feel immobile, every movement sears through my body like a white hot burn.

I can't even tell if my head hurts from the huge blow I got to my temple or if it from the amount of blood I am loosing. I can't tell anymore. But I know something is really wrong.

I want to sleep but I can't because of the new rule. If mama and Mark come downstairs and see me sleeping I am sure they will kill me. But everything is so heavy. My head is spinning and I swear I can see stars. My eyelids droop and with each blink it becomes harder and harder to keep my eyes open. Despite my fear sleep wins and as I fall into the dark abyss of nightmares I can only prey that mama and Mark don't come home early.

-

I jolt awake not much later from a nightmare. But after I get my bearings straight I strain my ears to find what's off in the house. First off, it is dark out which means it is later than five pm, mama should be home now, so should Mark. The thing is, I hear almost silent footsteps creaking the floorboards upstairs. Almost. These footprints are not mama's or Mark's. They have never walked so quietly in my life, they always have a stomp to their steps. They usually make the ceiling shake.