Hi! This is my first story on FP. net! I’m a user on FF. net too, so I’ve written many stories. This one is about an abused child. It’s based off the book A Child Called “It”. This story has inspired me, because my life is quite like the boy in the book’s life. Anyways, here’s the prologue.

...PROLOGUE…

It is a hot, spring Saturday morning. I am washing the dishes in my kitchen. As I scrub a pot, I stare at the ceiling. Mold and holes dot it and make it look greenish on the white paint. I sigh and stack the pot on the counter beside the plates and bowls that I had already washed. I hear Mother stomping around the house, yelling at my father.

She storms into the kitchen. I quickly place my hands under the scalding hot water before she can catch me with them out of it. Mother picks up a bowl I’ve stacked neatly with the others and inspects it. I turn to face her and her hand flies up in the air. I feel a hard whack in the face that sends me sprawled across the kitchen tiles.

“This bowl is not clean enough!” Mother hisses. “There’s still a stain right there!”

‘It’s a rust stain,’ I think, but I say nothing and stare at the ground. “Are you going to look at me and answer?” Mother demanded. “Or are you going to stare at the floor and get another slap?” I slowly turn my gaze to my Mother. She slaps me again and walks out of the kitchen.

It was action time. I quickly stood up; ignoring my throbbing cheeks, and place my hands under the water again. Mother will come back any minute and see if I’m still working, or still sprawled on the floor, moaning. It is almost school time. I still must stack the dishes up and finish cleaning the cups.

Once I get home, I know I will have to dust, vacuum, mop, clean the bathroom, put my brother and sisters’ clothes away, feed the cats that come to our house outside, and do any extra chores Mother wants me to do. I hurry to finish washing the cups and I clean the bowl once again, and while I’m about to finish stacking, the clock strikes 8:45.

I quickly stack the rest of the plates and go to my garage room to change my clothes. Today I must wear lime green shorts and a light purple T-shirt with holes in many places. Both are extremely small because they are from when I was 8, and now I’m 11.

Mother gives me my lunch, which is bread, carrot sticks, a tangerine, and a few stale cashews. This is more than she gives me. My stomach growls; I hadn’t been able to eat my brother and sisters’ leftover cereal. Today it had been Frosted Flakes. My belly rumbles at the sight of a few soggy flakes floating in a half bowl of milk.

I race to school and since I live only a few blocks from my school, I arrive right when class starts-8:50 AM. “Crap!” I mutter under my breath and I reach my locker. “I’m late again! I might get detention!”

As I tug out my math binder, footsteps behind me startle me. “Good morning, Jennifer. Up late again, I see.” It was the assistant principle. “What happened here?” She touches the red marks on my face ever so gently. I wish Mother could do that to me. “I…was…” I stammered, trying to think of a good excuse. “I was playing with my sisters this morning and I ran into the wall on accident.”

“Really? Well, why were you playing instead of making sure you were on time to school?” The assistant principle stares hard into my eyes. I never liked the assistant principle; she was always too nosy. The school nurse and the regular school principle were nicer and didn’t question every mark I had on my body.

“I was trying to find my math book, but my sisters wanted me to play with them,” I lied quickly. “Oh? Then what textbook is in your locker right now? Hm?” the assistant principle challenges me. “Social studies,” I say.

“Go and see the school nurse now, Jennifer,” the assistant principle instructs. “Then go to your first period.” I nod, and she quickly walks away. I stumble to the nurse’s office. The school nurse is the nicest person in the whole school. She wraps me in unimaginably warm, gentle hugs. The way I wish Mother would do.

She instructs me to pull up my shirt. She examines my back and my stomach. She points to a thick scar on my stomach. “Is this where she stabbed you?” she asks me. I nod. “With what?” she asks.

“A pen with a cap on it. It was an accident,” I tell her. ‘Accident’ is the word Mother makes me use when I’m telling the nurse or principle a lie about it. It always must be an accident.

“An accident?” the nurse says. She scribbles something down on her clipboard. “And all these marks on your legs are…?” She points to my legs with her pencil.

“Cat scratches,” I lie. I hate lying to the nurse, but I have to if I want to keep my tail end on. “And what about the bruises on your legs and arms?” she asks me.

“I fall a lot,” I say. “I’m really clumsy.” The nurse stares into my eyes and lifts my chin up to gaze at her. Her eyes are full of sorrow. “Tell me, are you really clumsy? I never see you fall on the stairs.”

‘Oh, no…’ I think, alarmed. “Here comes another beating when I get home!’ The nurse walks quickly across the tiled floor and grabs a thermometer. “Your mother makes you sleep outside in the garage, so you say?” she asks. I nod, and suddenly I feel regretful. “It was cold last night,” the nurse continues. “I can’t let you get sick because of sleeping on the cold concrete at night.” She pops the thermometer in my mouth the presses the button. I quietly waited for the beep.

It beeps, and she takes it out. “99.5,” she tells me. “Perhaps you should lay here and rest so you can feel refreshed for your daily chores when you get home.” I nod sleepily and crawl onto the tiny cots they keep in the back room. She lays a wool blanket over me and embraces me in a hug. ‘God, please don’t make her let go,’ I pray silently. But she does eventually. They always let go. And letting go is the one thing they will regret someday.

So, how was it? I find it very sad. If you’re wondering why this is in italic, it’s because this is the prologue. The epilogue will be like this too. But the chapters won’t be italic. Please review!

Peaceoutyall,

Amberstar