Control

I let the rusted door slam behind me noisily as I leave the small store. The noise and stench of the crowded city street hits me immediately. I'm shoved around as people rush to get where they need to be. I have a place to be as well, so I walk back home.

I keep my head down, I know the looks I get. I don't need a reminder.

I quickly put one foot in front of the other and ignore the mean voices clearly reaching me.

“Mom told me she wants me to have nothing to do with that girl, She’s an absolute lunatic’’

“Yeah, my Mother said she’s in league with the devil, there's obviously something off about her.”

“There’s no mistaking it, it's probably the reason why she was taken away from her first family. She’s freaky.”

I lower my head further, not wanting the other pedestrians to see the tears welling up in my eyes. I have to be strong. Who cares what those idiotic hoodlums think? Not Elizabeth.

Nope.

Not me.

I walk faster, not wanting to hear any more. As if God heard my prayers, the voices quickly fade.

Now I'm regretting my pace. The quicker I walk, the quicker I reach hell after all.

Not much later, I stood in the foggy street staring at the steps leading “home.” The bags are getting heavier every minute that passes there. Finally, I gather the courage to walk up and knock. My knocks are quiet and fast, barely audible. Nevertheless, the door opens to the face of my loving mother figure.

“What in the hell took so long?! Get in here you useless fool. The gardens grew vegetables before you could walk to the shop and buy them.” She says, her spit hitting me square on the forehead.

She ushers me inside and snatches the bags from my hands. She thoroughly checks through the bags. She either believes I'm dumb enough to be unable to follow simple directions, or insolent enough to steal from them. I can't decide which is worse.

She gives me a look after she's done, her bushy eyebrows rising expectantly. She wants me to feed her. Like an animal. Okay. I'll play.

I grab the bag of ingredients from her and strut to the kitchen.

I've come up with a game to keep myself sane in this awful house. From the first day I'd arrived, they believed me to be a spoiled child unable to cook or clean. However, laziness forces them to make me do both. So, obviously, I end up making things more messy when I clean, and make them wish they had starved themselves rather than eat my death-soup.

I out-do myself every time. My high score is making dear old Mother gag and run to the bathroom.

-°-°-

An hour or so later, our dysfunctional family gathers around the dirty table. The blinds are pulled back as if to let sunlight in, but neither the earth nor we have seen sunlight in a long time. The film of cloud that still covers earth is a scar that heals far too slowly. It's messed with humans

and beasts alike; who knew light was so essential for morale?

It's obvious no one is fond of each other in this family. My “father” is rarely home, and stinks of putrid alcohol when he is. My “mother” dislikes that particular habit. My “brother,” John, looks as if he's ready to escape this mess. I can agree.

Everyone tersely begins to eat. I'd decided on a stew today, I've found you can really be creative with them.

I get reaction. Huzzah!