Cry Me a River |✔️

Chapter 1- Sticks and Stones

^^River and his song^^

**keep in mind that this novel takes place in the late 1700s**

Hey, guys!! This story has been stuck in my head for far too long, so I decided to finally put it onto paper (or a computer screen ). Enjoy!! <3

'Time doesn't heal anything, it just teaches us how to live with the pain.'

Chapter 1
River's POV

"Worthless!"

"Weak!"

"Runt!"

My father's harsh words rang through my head as my legs dragged me past homes and forestry. My back bent forward, years of beating weighing down on my shoulders as the food in my arms did the same. A loose pebble along the path laid unnoticed by my eyes as my feet caught and body lurched forward to the cold dirt below me. Bread and vegetables flew from my arms, rolling across the ground and caking in grime.

A groan escaped my mouth, both in distraught over the fallen food and the pain of my bloodied hands and knees. 

I slowly lifted myself up, hissing as I went until I felt the light tap of an object on my shoulder. My head whipped to the side, catching a small boy in the distance with a handful of pebbles. My eyes grew considerably, fear etching into my bones as my body began to shake.

Why?

I reached for the brown material bag that previously held my food and shielded it across my face, hands trembling against the thick material. My breath grew thicker by the minute, waiting for the pain I knew was to come. Yet, nothing but silence met my shallow breaths.

I gradually lowered the bag, allowing only for my eyes to be uncovered in case the boy was growing clever in his antics. Though no boy could be seen as I eyed where he used to be. I pivoted my head, eyeing my surroundings. My brows knitted and lip pulled against my teeth as I held the bag tightly to my face. 

After a few minutes, I let out a sigh, nearly falling to my hands in relief. I quickly lifted myself from the ground and took to collecting the fallen food. I could only hope I was not to be late to supper. For father would surely hang me if he returned home to an empty table and an absent son.

My hands grabbed at sticks of celery, shoving them into the woven bag as peered across the pathway for any other lost food. Once I saw there to be none, I continued on. 

The wind brushed softly across my cheek, pushing my long hair into my face. I was long overdue for a haircut, a realization I came to weeks ago. Though I had been pushing it off, growing sick by the idea of having to see my own reflection in the mirror. For the face that always gazed back at me was so shallow, so sickly-looking that I would always turn immediately to erase the horrid image from my memory. Yet, each year I was forced to peer at it once again. Like an endless cycle of pain and distraught.

My feet strode against dirt and stone as I stepped up the stairs to a home I long since loathed to return to. I looked down at my feet as not to make eye contact with my neighbors as I turned the knob to my house and hurried inside. I expected a scream-fest from my father so when I was met with silence, a sigh of relief fell passed my tightened lips.

I dropped the food in the kitchen before hurrying to my room for a change of clothes.

My feet dragged past broken wood as I entered the small closet that I had long since labeled my own. My father had put me there from the moment I could walk, after all, it was the closest room to the kitchen. The place where I was to spend most, if not all, of my day, slaving away. It was set as a reminder of who I was, a mere slave whose only good quality was my ability to cook and clean. If, even that, was a positive quality to hold.