She was raised in a cottage on the countryside. The sky was a clear bright blue. The air was fresh and crisp. The grass was a gentle green and soft to lie in, perfect for cloud watching. The birds sang happy, loving melodies in the spring and summer. Her parents were nice and above all else cherished her. She had an ordinary child hood, was never mischievous. She was a good child. She loved her life and had hopes and ambitions for the future. That happy life is a lie. She only dreamt of that existence. Her reality was the far opposite. She did not know where she was born, nor did she know her parents. Her child hood was far from normal. She was abused in all ways except sexual. She had a strong will though. She was a slave. She did not have a name, nor did she own anything. Every thing in her life was a privilege that her master so kindly gave to her.
One of her privileges was the knowledge of being sixteen years old. She did not know when the day of her birth was and her master never bothered to tell her or did not know himself. So, on every New Year she increased her age. She did not know what date it was more then half the time nor did she know the time. She got her knowledge from books that her master allowed her to read. She taught her self how to read and write. She was very smart, smart enough to know not to use her knowledge against her master.
She had long, thin pale-blonde hair that was cut when spring started. Her eyes were auburn and sometimes looked crimson. Her skin was pallid, more so than blanch parchment. She usually wore a stained grey, ripped little dress. The straps often slid down her shoulders and the hem had gone up from wear. She had long white stockings, to keep her legs warm and a pair of black, fingerless gloves.
None of her attire looked nice. She looked like a beggar child on the streets. Her master said she should be grateful that he took her in. He said that she would have had a far worse life there, though; she did not see how that was possible. She would take the streets then her master any day. Of course, she would starve, but that was far better then being beaten for being a klutz.
Her master was a middle aged man of the scholarly type. His name was Fredrick. His black hair was pulled back and bond with a strip of white cloth. His hairline was receding as he aged and a widow's peak was forming. He dressed richly, the cloth and materials of high quality. He made it a point to always look his best and always have his house looking the best. He was a collector of all things he found beautiful and rare.
She was part of his collection. Never had he seen a slave with hair and skin that white, and eyes that red. When he purchased her as a baby, the traders had it in mind to drown her. They thought she was of the devil. She did not know it, but she owed her life to Fredrick.
Her life was hard, and she needed a way to cope with it. She came across a blank book on her master's shelf. She kept it hidden for a while, and her master did not notice it missing. When she was sure it was safe, the book became her diary and she wrote in it every second she was alone, locked in her room.
She wrote mostly when her master had people over, or in the early mornings and late at night. No one outside of her master and his servants knew of her existence. If she made too loud of a noise, she would be punished for it later. So, she sat on her bed writing her thoughts. It was, after all, the one and only way to keep her sanity. It was not good to keep all your thoughts inside. True, she was not really telling anyone, but it still helped to write.
When she thought she heard her master coming up the stairs, she hid the book and would write,
"Goodbye for now my one and only friend." followed by, "Hello again."
She always knew the difference between her master's and one of his maids' footsteps. He was the only one to bring her his meals. What she was given to eat depended on what mood he was in. If he was in a bad mood he would just open the door and throw a piece of bread at her ,sometimes it was stale. If he was not in any particular mood she would get bread and a raw vegetable and slated, dry meat. When his mood was pleasant, he would have his servants make a plate for him as well as her.
She would apologize to her diary, after not writing for a while. Sometimes, she would choose not to sleep so that she could write. She had no time to her self. With it now being the middle of winter, she had much work to do. She had to chop firewood and add it to the fires. She also had to do the laundry. Aside from her work, her state of mind was doing all right. Her master still abused her and as usual, she just sat there and took it. She had not spoken to her master for years. If she tried to speak, she likely could not. It would probably just sound like a weak croak. It did not matter. She had no reason to speak to her master. After all the saying goes, if you do not had anything nice to say, do not say anything at all.
She really did not know what to write about most of the time. She began to think it would help to write exactly what her master did to her. She did not think she would be able to talk about it, let alone talk period, but writing was something she could do.
Just a few weeks ago, she did something very foolish. She was in her master's study, putting back his books, when suddenly, the doorbell rang. The noise startled her and she dropped a heavy stack of books on her foot. Her foolishness in this was screaming from the pain, falling to the ground, and knocking over another stack of books. They fell to the ground with a loud crash.
She sat very still on the floor, ignoring the throbbing pain in her foot, while her master kindly turned away whoever was at the door. After the door quietly shut, she heard her master's pounding footsteps approaching her.
"What the hell was wrong with you!" He yelled as he pulled her to her feet, his gloved hands laced in her pale hair. "I ask you to do a simple task and you wind up making such a commotion. Look at your foot. Now you have only made it harder on yourself to do all your work. Why are you such a klutz!" He threw her into his desk and then kicked her in the side.
She did not dare move or make a sound. She just lay there, letting the pain set in, wishing to fall unconscious. After a moment, her master grabbed her roughly by the arm, his fingers bruising her fair skin, and pulled her to her feet. She knew that he intended to punish her further.
"I have a chore for you to do." He said sinisterly as he dragged her out of the room. She winced with every step because of her now swollen foot. Her master took her outside and then went and fetched a ladder. He set it up against the house and told her to climb up. She was hesitant at first and that rewarded her with a slap in the face. She slowly and meagerly climbed to the top. Then she found her master coming up behind her, handing her a chimney brush.
"I want you to clean this chimney. After you are done and if you do it correctly, I will let you take a hot bath." After he said that, he began his climb back down the ladder. Once he got to the ground, he removed the ladder and went back inside. She sat there wondering what the catch was, and then it rapped her. All the fires in the house were lit at certain times by the maids. The one she was told to clean would start in half an hour. That meant that if she did not have it clean before then, she would not get to take a hot bath.
The roof panels were loose, so she had to take extra caution while climbing up. It did not help that it was below zero and the wind was blowing. Carefully, she stood up next to the chimney, her foot screaming in agony. She hoped that the cold would numb it a bit.
As soon as she thrust the brush in, a puff of blackness came out and threw her into a fit of coughs. Her eyes burned and watered. When she stopped coughing, she wiped her eyes and then sat down and contemplated. This task was going to be challenging. She then took off her socks and tied them together, wrapping them around her face. She stood back up and winced. She was going to have a great number of splinters in her feet by the time she was done.
Ignoring the pain, she did her work. Her eyes burned and her swollen foot throbbed. The freezing, dry wind bit at her skin. It was hard to breathe through her thick socks. In the end, she was somehow able to get it done before the fire started. She slid to the edge of the roof and looked down. Considering the jump, she decided it would only make her suffer more.
She crawled over to another part of the roof and then climbed down the vines. Once she got to the ground, she untied her socks. Her master had not come outside. She knew he intended to leave her up there. She also knew that if she went in she would only be in more trouble, though she really did not care.
She opened the door and went in. It was so warm inside. Lying in front of the fireplace, her icy flesh feeling prickly, she soon fell asleep. A kick in the side soon woke her. She rolled over to see her master staring down at her.
"You still want that hot bath?" He asked with a hand outstretched to her. She took his hand and got up. He lead her to his chambers, were the bath was. The water was already drawn and was steaming. It was then that she began to see what her master really intended from the start. It did not matter how well she did with the chimney, he was going to let her take a bath anyway. When he said hot, he meant hot. The whole time he only planned to torture her.
She tried to get away, but he caught her arm and threw her to the floor. Her head throbbed and she began to cry and shake her head no. He picked her up and then tossed her into the tub. She went all the way under the water, and when she screamed it rushed down her throat and burned her inside as well as outside. She climbed out and lay curled up on the floor, still screaming. Her master just left her there and left the room. She dare not even write about the experience except to say that even after weeks later, every inch of her skin still ached.
She did not know if her master was truly that angry with her, or if he just wanted to torture her. Either way she would still take the streets if she could, if only she could.