The international singing sensation, Ghost Bird, is a name known around the world. No one knows who the mysterious singer is, but everyone knows her music.
Sang Sorenson sings to escape the reality of her hard life. Locked in a house with her mother...
I got my device back! *Squeals* This means that there will be at least one update every day, except the weeks that I am working as a councilor at a camp. Those weeks I won't have access to the internet so there will be no updates or replies. I will send out a head's up to all my followers beforehand, though!
Without further ado...
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Nervously, I unlock the front door. I flinch as the light blinds me and memories attack me. Without leaving the house, I pull the box inside as quick as possible so that no one sees me.
I lug the box over to the table that we no longer eat at and rip it open, revealing the food inside. Mother has stayed inside with me for as long as I can remember. Father, before he died, paid to have food delivered to us once a week. The food arrives in the morning and I retrieve it and put away all the food before Mother sees the box. For some reason, the sight of the box sends her into a rage.
I guess she is still torn up and mourning the death of her husband.
Quickly, I put away the food that I will never eat and get started on Mother's breakfast. As soon as it is done cooking, I dump the eggs on a plate and take it up to her room. I set the plate down on her cluttered nightstand silently. It is covered in pills, ancient magazines, and old dishes. I take the dirty dishes before fleeing and getting away from her sleeping form as fast as I can.
On silent feet, I walk back into the kitchen where I prepare my food for the day.
I read in a book somewhere that a Navy SEAL could survive forty days off of one MRE. I have to survive forty days off of one, despite hating them. An MRE is a Meal Ready to Eat. You can pour water in them, heat them, and eat them. You can pour water in them and eat them. You can just eat them plain. I personally don't like eating them, but they are edible and don't taste too bad. Not that I have eaten much else.
Stuffing a bite in my mouth, I have to force myself to leave the kitchen before I can no longer restrain myself and I start to eat Mother's food. Quickly, I scurry up to my room and open up yet another book that I have long since memorized. Father tried to keep me well supplied with many books so I never ran out.
I ran out of books that I haven't read eight years ago.
Now, I am stuck rereading the same books over and over again. Which is mostly why I started to write songs. I simply have far too much time on my hands and I enjoy the process of writing and singing songs immensely.
Ha! Sang singing songs.
It's okay. I crack myself up enough for everybody else.
I laugh quietly to myself until my voice gives out, leaving my throat feeling even more sore than before. Coughing in my elbow, I keep coughing, my throat feeling as if it is on fire. Pain races through me with every cough. Tears drip from my eyes as I try to stop coughing. As I try to stop the pain.
Finally, when the coughs stop wracking my body, I toss aside my book. Instead of reading it, I decide to recite it in my mind.
Four chapters into the novel, I hear a screeching noise that can only belong to Mother. I rise to my feet and race out of my room and stop in her doorway.
"—Kind of person does that?! You expect me to eat this shit?!" Mother rants, her voice growing in pitch and volume with each shout.
Apparently, she slept longer than normal and her eggs got cold. I try to apologize profusely, but the damage to my vocal cords stops me and I am unable to get anything out. Giving her an apologetic look, I hope for the best. As long as Mother does not do any more damage to my throat, I should be able to start talking and singing again within a week or two. Normally, it would take someone six to twelve weeks or even longer, but this is normal for me.
Mother actually messed up when she started forcing me to drink her little mixtures. She started with simple drinks that merely hurt my throat a bit. Those drinks allowed my throat to toughen up. Now, my voice is breathier and a bit huskier and lower, but I have a voice at least. A slightly damaged voice is much better than no voice at all, which is what I would have if Mother had screwed up.
Mother stands and smacks my head, earning a tear that leaks out of my bad eye.
"Go make me some real food, bitch! And hurry, I haven't eaten since dessert yesterday!" Mother orders.
I scramble to the kitchen and hurriedly cook some toast with butter, cinnamon, and sugar on it the way that she likes it. Racing back to her bedroom, I hand her the plate with the toast on it and duck my head, a motion that was started because I am shy and hate looking into her eyes. Mother likes it when I duck my head, she thinks of it as me bowing to her, so it always makes her a little less angry.
Because that is all Mother is.
Angry.
She lost the love of her life, my father, and apparently, anger is how she handles grief. I really can't blame her for what she does to me, she is just as much stuck in this house as I am. Plus, she is sick and heartbroken. How can I feel bad for myself when Mother has to deal with so much more than I do?
Unfortunately, ducking my head does nothing to improve Mother's mood today.
Unfortunately, it does nothing to stop the beating.
Unfortunately, it does nothing to stop the blows.
Unfortunately, it does nothing to stop the insults.
She throws a punch at my nose, nearly breaking it. I do my best not to flinch away from Mother, knowing that it will only make things worse. Besides, this is nothing.
Unflinching, I take it all.
The kicking, the slapping, the punching, the screaming.
I'm used to it, I deserve it, and Mother doesn't mean it.
