Hell Hole

Carrie, the little piano girl

Carrie, at 9

The piano is noisier than usual when I press "on." It hums like torture and the pain vibrates through my ears. Ha, that's funny. The piano reminds me of when I was young. When I wasn't trapped in the hideousness of my home. Or, what I call home. I don't really call it that, though. This is all false. Pretend. Fake.

Someone must've tampered with my piano. That's okay, though. I can fix any piano or keyboard in a whiz. Just need to find the right tools.

Finally, I can sit down and play my tunes. I've got 20 good minutes until everyone comes home.

When they do come home, it's always a war plotted against me, the second youngest. First is my foster mom, Dorothy. She sits at her computer in the Green Room, a room for adults only. If you enter, you've lost supper for 5 days.

My foster dad, Dan, loads up his body with chips and cola, sitting down in the TV room to watch some Weather Network.

Then is the oldest, an ugly and crippling 16 year old girl named Marie. Marie always pushes the little kids around. They are her, I mean, if you're 12 or older, yours too, slaves.

Jacob, the 12 year old boy, is always the ranter. He can push you over, give you knuckle sandwiches, and even knock you unconscious. And I've seen him do it.

Then after him is Ronnie, the 5 year old boy who sits in the corner of your room, sulking awkwardly. So odd that it sounds creepy, like something paranormal is living in your room.

Soon I hear a knock on the door. "Open up, you little wise-ache!" Dan yells. Time to turn off the piano. I tuck it under my bed and shuffle downstairs to unlock the back door. When I do, Dorothy and Dan are the first to shuffle in. Marie drags Ronnie in and shoves him to the ground, making him drop her books. "Thanks a lot, loser!" With that, she tosses a book with a hard, brown cover into the fireplace.