ART ONE
THE GIRL WHO LOST ALL HOPE
Monday's Child
Monday's child is fair of face
Tuesday's child is full of grace
Wednesday's child is full of woe
Thursday's child has far to go
Friday's child is loving and giving
Saturday's child works hard for his living
And the child that is born on the Sabbath day
Is bonny and blithe, and good and gay.
Anna Eliza Bray
Traditions of Devonshire 1838
In a fictitious world I hide away
To forget the pain I feel each day
Seeking solace between the lines
Words of wonder, poetic rhymes
1
Monday's Child
CARLIE
April 2
17 years old
I pull the white satin ribbons from my long brown hair then untangle the
braids before I run the hairbrush through it, stopping to tug on the ends
where they've become a matted mess of limp curls. It's down to my hips
now, and for the past two years, I've begged my father to allow me to have
it cut, but to no avail.
He's a firm believer, girls should look like girls. Long hair, makeup,
pretty dresses, and pink lipstick. Pants of any kind are completely out of the
question. Although that rule doesn't apply to my little sister, Cathie.
My hope is that when I turn eighteen and become an adult, my father
will follow through with his promise of allowing me to choose my own
clothes, and finally have my hair cut. His promise, though—like everything
else—could be nothing more than empty words I'll soon forget.
There are many things I'd like to forget, but somehow, they stay at
the forefront of my mind. Teasing me, torturing me with unanswered
questions, and flashes of moments I wish were nothing more than illusions.
My mind often plays tricks on me. My memories flicker, transporting
me back and forth between the fractured innocence of my childhood, and
the untimely realisation my life does not—and will never—belong to me.
I am a commodity. Owned and bound. Chained to the secrets and lies
my father has fed me from the moment I was old enough to understand.
Hope is a wasted wish I make each night before my eyes close and
another day comes to an end. Hope no longer lives here. I remind myself as
I set the brush down and raise my head to look into the bathroom mirror.
The gaunt face and pale features of a stranger stares back at me. Dark
circles mar the soft skin beneath her eyes, and her full lips, void of lipstick,
are dry and cracked.
Dehydration and malnourishment have taken their toll on my body.
Self-loathing, anxiety and fear continue to take their toll on my broken soul
and fragile mind.
I reach out to touch my reflection. When my fingertips make contact
with the cold surface of the mirror, I close my eyes and let my memories
carry me back.
In a moment of clarity, my father appears through the eyes of a little
girl who wanted nothing more than to be loved by her daddy.
I'm no longer a little girl, but I still live in an imaginary world.
Bound inside books, novels, and encyclopedias are all the places I long to
see. My heart, wherever it may be, is lost inside delicate pages, somewhere
between poetic prose, fiction, and fairy tales about princesses, enchanted
kingdoms and glorious dreams of happily ever after. Words are my freedom,
they are my lifeline to a world where my existence includes more than four
walls and a roof over my head.
In the real world, I am nothing more than a shell wrapped in a shroud
of everlasting misery and lost to the melancholy void of never-ending
despair. Every night I die a thousand tiny deaths. Each one brings me closer
to the end where all I see before me is a dreary midnight sky, punctured
with holes of crystalline stars. I grasp at slivers of hope in a desperate
attempt to capture the gaseous light and fill my heart with the wishes I
imagine makes the stars shine.
Every morning, in the aftermath of yet another horrific nightmare, I
wake to sublime whispers promising an end to the heartache and despair if I
can just take the final step. So many times, I've tried, but I cannot do it.
Often, I ask myself why the gentle caress of death's own hand has eluded
me for so long.
Am I so unworthy, even death will not take me?
I was five years old when it started. I asked my father why I had to
bathe three times a day. His big, strong hands lifted me out of the tub and
while he knelt in front of me making sure my pale flesh was clean and dry,
he told me baths were the only way to wash off the dirt and keep me
beautiful. He kissed my cheek and pulled me into him for a hug. That day, it
all made sense. If I was clean and beautiful, my father would love me.
He confirmed it when he said, "Carlie, you'll always be Daddy's
favourite." I never doubted him.
When my father's friends visited, they were overjoyed to see how
clean and pretty I was. They'd take turns holding me on their laps, stroking
my hair, and giving me candy in return for butterfly kisses. The pink
candies were always my favourite, and sometimes, if I was extra good and
let them touch me, I got big swirly lollipops that tasted like strawberries.
My father always reminded me I was his favourite when I was finally
back on his lap and wrapped in his arms. He was my safe place—I never
thought it was wrong.
Over time, the candy was replaced with things I had no desire or need
for. Underwear with frilly ruffles and tiny, pink satin ribbons I had to show
off to my father's friends. They bought me nightgowns that were cold and
soft all at once. And though they were always pink—my favourite colour—
I wished for more books and pencils. When they never came, I quickly
realised wishes weren't real, and mine would never come true.
Instead of crying, which always made my father angry, I would sit on
his lap and listen to his friends talking about things that made no sense to
me at all.
Now, those words are all it takes to send me spiralling into the
darkest recesses of my mind.
* * *
When I've showered and braided my hair, I pull on my white dress and sit
on my bed. For a few short minutes I listen to the sounds in the house. The
beat of rock music means my father is in the cellar with my little sister. The
knowledge brings tears to my eyes. With an exhale, I take my journal out
from under the mattress and place my hand on its pale pink cover.
My journal is my story.
The story I imagine I will write one day. One day when I'm brave
enough to pack what little possessions I have, and walk out the front door of
the house I've lived in since I was born.
My story is no longer the fairy tale I once believed it was. Inside
these pages are pieces of my life. Pieces of heartache, despair, loneliness,
and pain.
My hands tremble as I open the cover and flick through the pages.
Re-reading is almost torturous bliss. Those moments have come and gone—
never to be repeated—all that remain are scars and memories. Indelible ink
on the pages of my soul, reminding me of what I've endured at the hands of
my father, my brother, and the men who've been brought into my life.
When the music coming from the cellar grows louder, I swallow the
lump in my throat and cross my legs while I press my back against the wall
and begin to write.
April 2
Father has been happy with me and I desperately want to keep it that way
for as long as I possibly can. I've been thinking about my brother a lot
lately. His life is so different compared to mine. Even as twins, we are polar
opposites.
Trystan has a life.
I barely survive.
Yesterday, I peeked outside my bedroom window to see Trystan with
two of his friends, Luke and Glen. They were standing by the fence at the
side of the house, each one of them with a cigarette between their fingers.
They were talking about school, and the homework they had which they'd
planned to copy from another boy named Troy. Trystan said he'd paid Troy
fifty dollars to meet them at our house after school.
When Troy arrived and they made their way inside, I was sitting at
the kitchen table with my father. Luke and Glen acted as though I was
invisible. Maybe they believe that if they ignore me, they won't have to think
about the vile things they've done to my body. Not that it matters, I doubt
they care at all. They're just like Trystan.
Trystan introduced Troy to our father, and Troy, obviously unaware of
our father' s strict rules, extended his hand to me. I sat in silence while
Trystan slapped his hand away and told him he didn't have to talk to me.
I watched Troy' s face change. One minute, he was smiling, and his
blue eyes were bright. The next minute, he bit his lip and dropped his head
before following my brother out of the kitchen.
My father glared at me, but I knew what I had to do. I had to calm
him. To prove to him, I had no interest in my brother' s friends.
I stood and smoothed my hands down my dress before kissing his
cheek and offering to pour him a glass of rum. He didn't reply. His gaze
lingered on me as I poured the golden liquid into his favourite glass, then
made my way back to the table.
I stood in front of my father as he glanced toward the living room.
I knew what he was about to do.
I've come to know his movements and emotions better than I know
my own.
He slid his hand up my thigh until it came to rest on my bare
backside. With one hand, he pulled me closer and sucked in a breath as he
spread his legs wide.
I knew what he wanted.
I took another step forward, and while my lip quivered, and my
brother and his friends laughed in the living room, I whispered to my father,
"I love you most of all, Daddy."
I wonder if he' s always been sick. Was he this way when he was my
age? Is it my fault he' s like this? Did I make him sick? My books don't give
me all the answers. They don't tell me how to fix him.
I wish I could fix him.
The music stops as suddenly as it started. I close my journal and
shove it under the mattress before I smooth out my bed and wait for my
father to come in.
When my door opens, Cathie's sobs fill my room. The blush of a
purple bruise creates a shadow on her left cheek.
Father pushes her toward me. "Clean her up, I want her ready for the
morning."
I nod once. "Yes, Father."
"And teach the brat some manners. She's got an attitude I don't want
to hear again."
Another nod. "Of course, Father."
His eyes stay fixed on mine for the longest minute, testing my
resolve, waiting for me to crack. Knowing my love for my little sister is the
only thing that keeps me going now.
I remain calm, even allowing the corner of my lips to turn up into a
slight—entirely fake—smile. It works, and I breathe a sigh of relief as the
door closes and his footsteps disappear down the hallway.
Cathie runs to me, wrapping her thin arms around my waist as I
stroke her hair.
"We'll be okay, jellybean." It's a lie, and she knows it.
As I lead Cathie to the bathroom, she sobs while I run the bath. When
she peels off her t-shirt, I hold back my own tears as I stare down at the
little girl who has lost her will to live. At twelve years old, she should be
happier, and of course she should be free from this world where she's being
used, abused, and treated as though she's nothing more than a plaything.
Once I've helped her into the bathtub, she drops her head. "Carlie, I
don't want to do it anymore."
Kneeling beside the tub, I take the pink loofah and rub it gently
across her back, taking care not to scrub too hard. It was only three days
ago when father used the belt on her for talking back to him. The wounds
have scabbed over, but her thin flesh is still raised and red where the belt
cut into her skin.
"Cathie, you have to do as you're told. You cannot keep talking
back."
She pulls her knees to her chest and wraps her arms around them. "I
can't help it. Shadow tells me what to do. Please can we run away?"
My heart hammers beneath my rib cage. Inside, I am broken.
For the past four years, Cathie's been telling me about Shadow. A
"girl's voice" that tells her to do bad things. Sometimes, I wonder if there's
something wrong inside her head because of all the times our father has
punished her. The times he's thrown her across the room, or let Trystan beat
her.
I hold myself together for her sake. "We can't. He'll find us. Please,
Cathie, do as you're told. I'll ask him to use me instead, but you have to
promise me you'll try to ignore Shadow, okay?"
She turns her head to me. Her wide eyes are empty. Void of love, of
emotion, of anything resembling the little girl hidden somewhere deep
inside. Her voice drops to an eerie murmur that sends shivers down my
spine. "Shadow says you're lying."
I swallow the lump in my throat and stroke her hair. "I love you,
jellybean, I would never lie to you."
She brings a finger to her pursed lips. "Shhh... Shadow doesn't like
you today."
As I wipe a face cloth over Cathie's face and neck, she begins
rocking back and forth. Then, without warning she punches her own
forehead. I grab her thin wrists to stop her hurting herself. "Cathie, stop
now. It's me, I won't hurt you."
She shakes her head hard. "No!" she shouts. "Leave her alone,
Shadow. I don't want to."
While my heart beats furiously, I pull Cathie into my arms, her tiny
body still in the bathtub and splashing around like a fish out of water. "I
love you, jellybean," I repeat the words over and over until she's finally
silent once again.
When I release my grip on her, her shoulders relax and she drops her
head. "Everyone will die here." Cathie's voice is an ominous whisper that
clouds my mind with thoughts of never ending pain and suffering.
My father hated Cathie from the moment she was born.
I remember the day vividly. My mother's screams of pain while I
dabbed at her forehead with a cold face cloth. My father's pacing as he
waited for the tiny baby to make its way into the world. And my brother,
pacing back and forth with him, mimicking his every movement, his every
word.
Cathie was born at two minutes past six on the fourth of November.
It was a Wednesday. Wednesday' s child is full of woe. A single line from an
old nursery rhyme written way back in the 1800s plays over in my head.
Wednesday' s child is full of woe. Was this always Cathie's fate? To be
born on a cold Wednesday morning to a father who wanted another son, not
a daughter with blonde curls and big blue eyes. Perhaps I was the lucky
one. I was born on a Monday afternoon. Monday' s child is fair of face. My
mother always told me I was beautiful because I was born on a Monday, she
said it was why I would always be "Daddy's favourite".
I didn't understand. And for a long time, I wondered why my father
never wanted to hold Cathie. He never touched her, never spoke to, or about
her until four years ago when he started using her. All his attention was on
me. While I was showered with gifts and love, my sister was in her
bedroom, alone. There was always a part of me that wanted her to share
some of that love too.
Now, I wish she had been born a boy. Then I would know with
certainty she'd be safe.
"Carlie." Cathie's soft voice pulls me from my thoughts. "Why aren't
you scared of anything?"
She tilts her head back as I pour a jug of water over her blonde curls.
"I'm scared of water," I remind her.
"But you still have a bath, and a shower."
I squirt the strawberry scented shampoo into my palm then start
massaging it into Cathie's scalp. "Sometimes, even when you're scared, you
have to be brave."
"I'm brave sometimes, when Shadow helps me. But not all the time."
"I know, jellybean."
She giggles as I wash the shampoo out of her hair. "Can you tell me
the jellybean story again?"
I smile when Cathie's eyes light up. It's a rare occurrence, but when
they do, it gives me the strength I need to go on, and to protect her no
matter what the cost.
I lower my voice to a whisper. "The day you were born Mummy was
so, so happy, but she was so tired that she couldn't get up for a little while
and needed lots and lots of sleep. Daddy said I could look after you, and
once the doctor had gone home, I got your baby clothes out of the drawer
and I dressed you in a tiny—"
She cuts me off. "Pink! A pink jumpsuit!" Her smile brings tears to
my eyes.
I press my finger to her lips. "Shhh..."
She responds with a nod.
"That's right. A tiny pink jumpsuit. Then, I laid out the fluffy pink
blanket Mummy had made especially for you. I put you on the blanket and I
wrapped you up tight and lifted you into my arms so I could cuddle you."
"Then what happened?" she asks, even though I've told her the story
exactly thirty-two times.
"Then, I sat on the floor and watched you fall asleep. When Mummy
woke up, she called out to me, and I took you to her. Mummy started
laughing. When I asked her why she was laughing, she said I wrapped you
up so tight that you looked like a little pink jellybean."
"Did Mummy love me, Carlie, like you do?"
I nod, and this time I let my tears fall. "She loved you so, so much.
More than any mummy has ever loved any little girl in this entire world."
As I rinse out the last of the conditioner from Cathie's hair, she rubs
her eyes. "One day, will we leave this house?" she asks, her voice filled
with hope.
"One day, jellybean. One day we'll be free."
Fading, losing
Blood stained, blackened heart
Please take me away from here
From where the nightmares are
