7. Purgatory

I was locked in my room as soon as I arrived at the estate. 

Later that day, servants came back and stripped everything from my room. They removed the blanket, the toys, the furnitures… They barred up the windows from the inside. Barely leaving gaps for the light to filter through. In the end, all they left was my mattress on the cold, hard floor. 

For a while after that, I didn’t see anyone. Not even Goldie. Once a day, they cracked the door open just enough to leave some food by the door. Mostly leftovers or stale bread. I missed Goldie. I missed Darkie… Hopefully, they were both safe.

After a few days of isolation, my father came to the room accompanied by a Kinsmann. Too surprised by his sudden appearance, I stood there in a stupor. All I could focus on was the horse crop In his hand.

At first, he only spoke to me, sometimes glancing at the Kinsmann standing by the door, as though asking for approval. Thinking that speaking would make him hit me like the Bishop did, I remained quiet, but that was in vain. 

He struck me regardless. 

The first time the horse crop connected with my skin, I was too shocked to even register the pain. But that didn’t last long. He continued talking, endlessly, and whether or not I replied, he would strike me again. 

Many times. 

Too many. 

I couldn’t have counted if I tried. 

My skin felt like it was on fire. Long red streaks covered my body and split in places. 

And then, he left me, crying, curled up on the floor.

This happened over and over again. For days.

Then, one day, he entered the room with my three siblings in tow. A Kinsmann never too far behind them. I lifted my head, hoping for them to help me, but all I saw were horrified looks on their faces. 

Father started talking angrily, pointing at me like I was a criminal. The expression on Ela and Knox's faces wavered between confusion, fear, and barely contained anger, while Dalton simply cried the whole time. 

Father held up the horse crop once more and hit me. Then he forcefully planted the crop in Knox's hands. He hesitated for a moment and said something to me with a pleading expression.

[Please don’t do this, Knox. Please, please, please don’t hurt me.] I begged.

Father screamed at Knox after I spoke, and Knox screamed something to me again, with a fearful expression on his face… 

And then, struck me with the crop.

Father didn't even bother to hide the smile spreading across his face. He placed a hand on Knox's shoulder and said something to him. Knox looked at him with a mixture of confusion and relief. He then turned back to me and asked something else.

[I… I don’t know!] I pleaded as I shielded my face.

But Knox hit me again regardless. Once, twice… Too many times.

My arms were throbbing and swollen by the time he stopped.

Then came Ela. Her face showed no expression. When the crop was placed in her hands, she didn’t ask anything. She tightened her grip on the crop and hit me harder, and longer, than Knox had. I tried to look up at her, to plead, but she refused to meet my eyes. Instead, she stared right through me as the crop continued to leave painful, bloody streaks on my skin.

Finally came Dalton’s turn, but he wouldn’t stop crying. Ela tried to give him the crop, but his hands couldn’t even hold it. She tried to force it into his grasp, but he couldn’t. 

After some time, Father walked up to Dalton and struck him across the cheek. Dalton, crying ever harder, held his face in pain. Father gripped his shoulders, yelling at him. He then pointed at me, then back to Dalton, took the crop and forced it into Dalton’s hand before pushing him towards me. 

Dalton looked at me with pleading eyes, tears rolling down his cheeks. 

As my father loomed behind him, Dalton finally struck me. He managed only three hits before collapsing into sobs. 

Father grabbed him by the arm and carried him out of the room, followed by my other two siblings, leaving only the Kinsmann. His pink eyes pierced through me as I sobbed and finally collapsed onto the floor. He turned his back on me and left, slamming the door shut.

All I could do was cry as blood dripped from the bruises all over my body. 

I didn’t get any food that night.

Three days later, my mother came to the room. She was alone. To my surprise, she did not strike me or even scream at me. She simply stared at me in silence, her eyes full of contempt, until the sun set, and then she left. 

I didn’t get any food that night either.

After that day, I began thinking that maybe I really was just a broken doll to them. A warning of what not to become.

Days came and went vaguely. Sometimes Father came to scream or hit me. Other days, my mother came and simply stared. 

On those days, I rarely ate unless food was dropped off much earlier. Even then, it was barely edible. Stale, moldy, or cold leftovers from days past. 

I discovered that if I spoke or made too much noise, I could expect a visit from my father. So I stayed silent.

I began walking around the room. Slowly. It helped with the dizziness, though not much. I would count my steps, trying every time to get a little further, but no matter how well I did, it would always end with me falling over. The bruises from the beatings and the missed meals didn’t help either.

As time passed, my balance improved, but the dizziness still came and went, but I still kept going. Iit was better than thinking about the next visit.

I didn’t have a concrete plan, but I knew I had to run away. I had to practice for when the opportunity came. Even becoming a beggar would be better than this.

Time passed, and the temperature dropped. With no wood or matches, I couldn’t start a fire in the chimney. The blankets were gone too. The only way to stay warm was to curl into a ball. But even then, I couldn’t sleep properly.

I would wake up at all hours, drenched in sweat, thinking Father or the Bishop was coming again. My mind constantly imagined the door creaking open, or the floor trembling under their footsteps.

And then the door would really open. 

It was my mother this time. She never struck me, only stared silently for hours. It was nerve-wracking. I had to look at her the entire time, or else I could expect Father to come later.

But this time was different. 

This time, she was speaking to me. 

Not shouting like Father. She didn’t even have an angry expression on her face, only a cold look of contempt. 

She spoke for a long time, until the sun began to set. She looked toward the orange light filtering through the window boards. She said something toward the door, paused, glanced back at me before starting to walk away.

As she put her hand on the doorknob, I couldn’t help letting out a sigh of relief. 

A mistake. 

Her hand froze on the handle, before dropping to her side.

She stood still, her back to me. I waited, unsure what she was doing. 

Suddenly she rushed toward me. 

I jumped back, trying to flee, but my feet got tangled. Before I could react properly, she wrapped her hands around my neck.

She squeezed as hard as she could, choking me. 

Nothing could go through.

Blood boiled in my head. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. My lungs burned. My eyes rolled back…

Just as my vision began to grow dark, she let go.

I gasped for air, catching a glimpse of her face twisted with fear and rage, tears running down her cheeks.

She slapped me. I gagged on my breath and fell into a coughing fit. I tried to get to my knees but threw up what little that was in my stomach. 

Scarlet stains speckled in the bile.

She forced me upright and slapped me again. Again and again… Until I could barely open my eyes.

Enough.

I had enough.

Gathering all my strength, I kicked her in the chest. She staggered backwards, breathless, giving me space to pull away.

I looked at her and screamed. 

Screamed all my emotions away. Anger, sadness, pain– out in one raw, uncontrolled burst. My throat felt as if it was being torn to shreds, but I didn’t stop.

At first, my mother looked at me with the same expression, but that quickly changed and gave way to real, genuine fear. 

She backed away, tripping as she tried to distance herself from me. As I continued screaming. She looked terrified… No… In pain. 

I was hurting her.

Shielding her ears with her hands, she scrambled to her feet and fled, slamming the door behind her.

For once, she was the one who ran from me

Finally, I did it. 

I stood up to her.

To them.

That satisfying thought had barely formed before everything went dark.

Exhausted, my mind gave out before I even hit the floor.