Without The Grace

Attics and Bullfrogs

The sun was the first thing I saw, it was always the first thing I saw. There were little to no perks to living inside an attic. 

Except for maybe the peace and quiet. Or maybe the fact that there were no chores for me to do in the attic, and nobody was yelling at me to turn on their shower as they reclined on their king sized bed. 

I reluctantly threw my covers on the floor and stood up to stretch.

As I rummaged through my suitcase, I scared away a lone mouse who had probably been sleeping inside of my clothing. Something else that wasn't new.

It didn't bother me. After thirteen years in the attic, I'd seen everything.

I'd encountered spiders, lizards, moths, squirrels, and even a snake once. I had to stop screaming because though it was possible that I was probably having my face ripped off, I was being too loud and the girls downstairs could not concentrate on doing nothing with all of my screaming. 

Living in an attic created tough skin. I found my own ways to deal with the rodents and animals, the leaking ceiling, the creaking floors, and the moldy walls. 

The attic wasn't horrible. There was a huge circular window that gave me a good view of the outside world. And there was usually enough lighting.

After realizing that I would be living in the attic for a while, I began to scrub it down and clean it. It was nice to have a space to call my own, though it was somewhere where nobody would come looking for me.

I could see the city lights at night, which were always really pretty. During the day it was nice to see people hustling and bustling around the city, going to work and school and paying no attention to the light faced girl staring out a window.

I turned back to my room to pick out my clothes for school. Occasionally, the stepmother would come up while I was at school and take any clothes I had, especially if they were nice, or if my father had bought them for me.  

I had thought about locking my suitcase, but I knew she would have no problem cutting it open.

I became accustomed to losing things. When I lost my mother, my world fell apart and I lost everything that I had once called mine. Especially my father.

Where there wasn't a tiny cot and suitcase, there were stacks of old books, boxes and worn out furniture.

Why my father allowed me to live in the attic was beyond me. But he did promise that he would ask the stepmother if he could extend the house soon so that I could have a room.

We both knew that it wasn't going to happen, but I knew that we both figured if we kept the empty promises up, it would keep me going. 

I tiptoed downstairs to take a shower. If I woke up the stepmother or the crazy twins I'd be in big trouble. Every day was a "long" day for them and they could not lose a wink of sleep.

My father, however, was up as always, before dawn.

"Morning princess." He said when I stopped at the kitchen. He was sipping coffee and reading the newspaper as I usually found him.

"Hey dad." I leaned against the door frame.

I was almost a spitting image of my father. From the brown hair to the crystal clear eyes to the tall, thin frame.

All traits the stepmother despised on me. Probably because her own daughters looked like thin cows. 

"Smile." My father said. "It's Friday." He forced a smile onto his own face, though I knew he didn't mean it.