Snippet of my novel ...

Hey everyone!Here's the deal: I am still writing. I guess I am uninspired. I feel unloved--not by friends, but missing out on that companionship I've been craving. It has made me lathargic and unwilling (and perhaps unable?) to write for a while.
But the other reason I don't post things on here is because ... this is really raw stuff. The stuff you're about to read below are things that ... I don't really talk about. I don't talk about them because ... I don't know how to explain it but, it's like it happened to me in a different life, in a different time. I feel so different now than I did then. But when I look back, I am forced to remember... and in that rememberance is a different girl, one scared, alone, ashamed, and suffering from a personal nightmare. Sometimes, when I put myself back there, I actually become scared and forget that I got out. I am saved! I am okay. I have to keep reminding myself that.
So please forgive this blog. If you do read further, know only that this may be one of the most telling blogs I've ever written. I am ashamed to admit that these things happened to me, because even writing them now, I still feel helpless. But the truth is, I am writing this all for (hopefully) a bigger purpose--to help someone else out before it is too late. Help them get away, just like I did. Help them to understand the reason is just as important as the action. So here you go.
It's a fun game that my brothers are playing; at least, I think so. They are both taking turns jumping up and down on my bed. Determined not to be left out, I anxiously get up to join them. After all, it is my bed. As they jump, the mattress makes a loud zoinnng sound and they spring up together, in the air. I get up to join them and go to jump and the first few times, they are pushing me, telling me to get down. There's not room enough for three they are telling me. But I'm having too much fun to listen. I make a zoinnng sound of my own as I jump up and down while they are trying to push me off the bed. At some point, they jump up as I am coming down and I realize my mistake. I should have waited or gotten down. But then I am springing forward toward the wooden edge of my headboard and landing and feeling the pain wracking feeling as my head connects with the board and the resounding smack as my face makes contact with the sharpened edge of the wood. It hurts so much, I can't breathe, and all at once I'm screaming and yelling and crying. I don't remember much happening after that until I see them putting a large bag of ice on my face. It hurts too much to talk, and tears are streaming down my unwilling face.
When I realize that my mother is talking to me, I try to focus on what she is saying, try to forget about the pain.
"Shame on you. You should listen to your brothers next time." She rants. "What were you thinking, jumping up and down on your bed? Why did you do that?" She puts on her shoes and someone helps me put on mine.
We drive to the doctor, a little office in town that provides the only medical services for at least fifty miles. There are maybe two doctors, one of which is always on call for cases like this.
He takes a look at my face but I can't tell exactly because by this point, both my eyes are practically swollen shut. He tells me not to worry, my nose isn't broken, but I learn later that he's lying to me to make me feel better. He takes notes on his clipboard and tells my mom that I need to rest. "Lots of rest." He tells me.
She tells him I was being naughty. She seems to use that word a lot when she talks about me. I am too confused to ask why Jake and Justin aren't in as much trouble. But I don't say anything. I'm only five years old, and no one really listens to me anyway. I'm too busy focusing on the pain. So I zone in and out of listening to what the doctor is telling my mom about what to do for my care.
"It's going to leave a nasty scar on the bridge of her nose." The doctor says. I can hear this and put the bag of ice down to feel my nose. At the top, I can feel a large indentation, almost as if my nose has been disconnected and then reattached to my head. It feels so puffy, I almost feel like I'm touching someone else's face instead of mine.
"And how did you say she did this?" He is asking her now, a clear hint of concern in his voice. He's always so nice to me. He's the one who always offers me candy whenever I come here; I like him.
"She was jumping up and down on the bed. I guess at some point, she jumped wrong and hit her head."
"That seems strange." He is saying now. "Because to have this type of injury, it looks as though someone would have had to have pushed her into the bed frame. I'm not convinced that she did this by herself."
I can feel Mom staring at me. My eyes are swollen, but I can feel her gaze because a feeling of dread washes through me in a way that I can't explain let alone understand.
"Tell Mr. Johnston what happened."
"Well …" I begin. Do I tell the truth? The answer comes out in a rush of words and funny sounding sentences. I sound funny because my lip is also swollen.
"Jabe and Jubin were jumbing," I manage, "And I wanna jumb too so I jumb. But then I jumb up and they jumb down and I hit my face."
"That's not what your brothers told me." She sounds angry now. "Is that really what happened sweetie?"
"Yes."
I can hear the doctor scribbling something down on his clipboard and at some point, we are out of the doctor's office and on our way home. My care is simple: lots of rest, ice for the swelling, and Tyelenol for the pain.
Mom doesn't want me to go to school, because they other kids are going to see how I look. But I don't care; I want to go to school. I'd rather be in school learning new things, than anywhere else in the world. If I stay home, I am going to have to cook and clean and do all the chores around the house. The doctor prescribes rest, but that only means a sentence of work if I stay home.

I end up going to school and my teacher is so horrified, she immediately phones both my parents and the other school administrators to take a look at me. Everyone asks me what happened, so I have to repeat the story about a million times. I don't know until later that there is a reason everyone keeps asking me … but I like the attention, and tell them as many times as they want to hear it.
Weeks later, something else happens that only adds to the precarious situation.
I help Annie make dinner, at least, I am supposed to; I try to. I help her by getting out the silverware and placing the napkins and doing whatever else she wants me to do. Mostly, she says I get in her way. But I want to be with her, near her. Finally, dinner is ready and we call Mom. Dad is at work, like always, and won't be home until about two in the morning. I call upstairs to Justin and Jake, but there is no answer. I run upstairs and their room is messy as always, smells of urine, and they are not there.
Annie tells me to call for them outside. I walk out the front door and realize they are just a few yards away, staring at something. I call for them to come in for dinner, but they don't seem to hear me. I walk a little closer, I'm not wearing shoes, and tell them again. But they still don't seem to hear me. When I come even closer, I realize that they are playing a funny game.
Both have matches in their hands. They take turns lighting the match and throwing it, both watching to see where it lands. I am fascinated because I have no idea what they are doing. What's the point? But I just keep staring and watching as the wind carries the little matches into the air. At one point, Justin lights his match and throws it. The wind is gusting just then and the match instantly burns out and falls to the ground.
"Ha ha!" Jake grins. "I'm going to beat that easy."
He lights his match and throws it, and suddenly, it disappears. He is looking around and can't find it. I step a little closer, determined to find it for them. A few seconds go by and it looks as though it's gone. Good. Their game is over.
"Dinner is ready." I tell them. All of a sudden, Jake looks at me as if noticing me for the first time, and screams.
"Stop drop and roll!" he screams. I realize where the match has gone. It didn't disappear after all. The wind has blown the match into my hair and I am on fire. All of a sudden, I feel someone push me to the ground, and then I am rolling, rolling, rolling as they are screaming at me.
All I keep thinking is, why do they have to play these stupid games? Why are they playing with matches? How come they never pay attention to me? All of these thoughts and a million others flash through my head. It feels like forever that I am rolling on the ground. Rolling. I just wanted to be noticed. Rolling. I just want them to love me. Rolling again. At some point, I can't remember what happens next, because I pass out.
I am awake now, but it doesn't make much sense. I am in a big bed, I think at the hospital. My head is bandaged up all over. The doctor is talking again and my ears are practically covered. But the strange thing is, I can't feel any pain.
I know the doctor is saying something important, but I don't understand what it means. "… First, second, and third degree burns to her head…" he is saying. "Needs to be bandaged for at least a month …" "Hair has been practically burned off… We put some cream on the wound …"
I don't know what they are talking about. All I know is that I have to wear these stupid bandages for a month! And my beautiful blonde hair is all gone. Later, I begin to feel the pain. Worse, I am hoping that she'll hug me, just lean over and be kind to me. But she's angry with me again. Justin and Jake have told her that I was playing with matches outside, and she believes them. She always believes them. I don't even know how to light matches, or even where they are in the house, but she doesn't seem to care. She just seems glad to get me out of the hospital and for a few hours, she is a little nice. It's Dad that really takes care of me. He brings me ice cream (a treat I never get to have), gum from the store, and my favorite thing in the whole world, a coloring book and crayons. He even got me a paper doll book so I can punch out clothing and put it on the dolls however I want. I'm so excited.
She asks me why I was playing with matches, demands to know the answer, promises me that she'll hurt me if I don't say. But I don't know what to say because I didn't do it. Doesn't she always tell me to tell the truth? But the truth means that I didn't do anything wrong. The truth means that I get my brothers in trouble? The truth means her not believing me? I choose the truth. I tell her everything about the match game but leave out the part where I was fascinated by the fire. She questions Jake and Justin and Annie tells me that the matches are kept above the wood stove, and there's no way I am tall enough to reach the wood stove. Mom has to believe me. It seems like she does, and so I am spared any punishment, and I am grateful.
Even though my head is in bandages, I beg to go to school. I've already missed a lot of school this year, what with my face, and all the other times Mom keeps me out of school after she's punished me. But I beg and plead and at some point, they give in—probably, I find out later, because they are contacted by the school about my missing it so much. Why does a girl who loves school so much seem to never attend? But no one wants to tell them I've had yet another "accident."
So I go to school, bandages and all. My teacher pulls me out of class and demands to know what my parents have done to me. That's funny because this is the one time, well, the second time, that they haven't done anything at all. It's all the times they don't see … but I don't tell them about that. Something about the way they are talking to me and about my parents makes me want to protect them somehow. They are blaming my family for my condition and it makes me upset. I start to cry and they are bringing me chocolate milk and crackers and comforting me.

Novel

Just wanted to throw some stuff on here today that I'm working on right now. Just a side note about writing something especially difficult... it's hard for me because I have to place myself back there again, in that place where I was constantly afraid, where I was constantly hurt.
For anyone that has ever been through a similar situation, you know what I am talking about. The same feelings of helplessness, anxiety, and that ever present feeling that I cannot breathe begins to return.
Anyways, the writing is slow-going at this point... but I wanted to include a few little bits in here... bits of a life from long ago. Pieces of me.
**NAMES have been changed**
All of my life, I have wanted to be a part of something, bigger than myself. I watch all the popular kids talking about sports at school-who is going to play varsity volleyball this year and who got injured and whose serve can't be beat. There is an excited tone in their voice, and I listen in .. ..

I don't know anything about volleyball-except that you're supposed to hit the ball. When it comes roaring at you, you grasp your hands together, evenly, pushing upward as the ball comes downward at just the right angle, not too much, to send the ball forward-not straight up, and definitely not behind you. A volleyball always wants to move forward. At least, that's what it looks like to me. There's something about the whoosh it makes as it sails through the air and the resounding smack as it makes contact with eager hands who want to send it to the other side of the net.....
.. ..
There's something else about watching volleyball that makes me anxious. It's about more than the excitement rising like a heat wave through the crowd, more than about the popularity it seems to bring those that play. There's something about the way I see all the parents showing up to watch their kids play that makes me sad. The way the parents seem to dote on their children, cheer them on from the stands, give them hugs and tell them how proud they are. It's more than that, and I know it. Volleyball represents yet another thing that I cannot do.....
.. ..
Perhaps that is the reason that I find myself eager to try and play every chance I get. I try and tell myself, as the ball sails over my head, or I miss my shot, that I'm not on the team, I don't have to care if I mess it all up; but all the same, I do.....
.. ..
Perhaps I'm not as good as I'd like to be. Sometimes I get picked last for the team when we play during school hours for PE. But I don't care, at least I'm getting to play. ....
.. ..
It's not just the fact that I'm bad at volleyball, I could probably get better, but the fact that I'm not allowed to play. I'm not allowed to participate in any sports at all. She makes up all kinds of reasons. On the right day it's because she can't afford it, or so she says as she pours herself another drink. On the wrong day, it's because I've done something wrong again. I don't deserve to play sports. I don't deserve to have friends. I don't deserve to live. ....
.. ..
I come home every day from school on time, anticipating her daily call home. If I am not there to answer the phone, she will call again and again, and grow angrier with each unanswered ring. Today, I manage to get home on time to answer her call.....
"What are you doing?""I just got home from school.""Where's Sandy?"....
"I don't know. Walking home with Amanda I think."....
"Why didn't you wait for her."....
"We get out of school at different times."....
"You need to wait for her tomorrow. I don't want her to walk alone."....
"She's walking with Amanda."....
"Well don't forget to do your chores. I have to get back to work right now. I might stop at the bar after work tonight. So make sure you do all the chores before I get home and fix yourself and Shauna some dinner."....
"But there's nothing in the fridge."....
"Isn't there some hamburger?"....
"We used that up a few days ago."....
"Well there's lots of food in the cupboard. You're not helpless. Figure it out." The frustration in her tone is showing. I can't let this get out of control, can't let her think that anything is wrong or we'll pay for it when she gets home. I have homework to do and I'm glad she said she was going to the bar tonight. I need a night of peace."Okay Mom." I choose today not to argue with her.....
.. ..
.. ..
There's nothing in the fridge, but I don't tell her that. Sandy and I ate pickle sandwiches last night, made a game of it. We carefully sliced dill pickles into four long strips, piled the slices on the stale left-over wheat bread we had thawed from the freezer, and carefully and gently placed our pickle slices on the bread, added some ketchup, mustard, mayo, and that was our dinner.....
.. ..

The Promise

This mini story came to me one day a few weeks ago and has been swimming around my head. I'm not sure how it's going to end or what's going to happen. I don't know this little boy (now all grown up) but I think I'd like to ...
It started out with a watch. And a promise. It was just a simple watch, something his dad had probably picked up at Target or some other similar store. But to him, because it was a gift from his father, it meant everything. It had a simple black rubber strap, and there was nothing intricate or detailed about the large face and small hands. It was simple and undorned and yet, it was special.
Whenever he thought of his father, he felt a great loss. His father was a quiet man who often kept his thoughts to himself. He was a difficult person to know and yet he had a quiet strength and warm humor about him. As the years passed, memories of what he looked like and things they talked about began to fade, until he became only a whisper of someone who used to love him, who used to watch him play with his friends, who left the world far too soon. As the years passed, his mother had put away the pictures one by one and the only time he was mentioned was in passing during family gatherings or when someone suggested they should watch the old family movies they'd created. Yet he still kept inside him the memory of his father, and the constant reminder of his promise.
He had almost forgotten about the watch, hidden away in some drawer taking up a home next to large white sport socks. Yet he could not forget. It had broken years before and he had yet to get it fixed, partially because every time he picked it up, he was reminded of memories of a person he would never get to see again. He still had so many questions to ask and so many things left unsaid ...
Yet for some reason, while searching for a quarter or some other item that had fallen into the drawer, he felt it and picked it up. He looked down at it, a sense of sadness rushing into him stronger than he realized it would. He rubbed his fingers absently over the face, wiping off whatever lint had accumulated; he couldn't help but remember the last real moments he had with his father.
In those days, you didn't ask your father what kind of person he was, you watched, you observed, you emulated. For some reason, they had never been as close as he wished they had been; he took his presence for granted almost up until the end. But it was what he asked him in his last few moments with his father that he would never forget.
Whenever his father spoke, he always listened carefully for whatever words of wisdom he offered. When his father spoke, everyone listened. Now, here he was, weakened, vulnerable. He waited anxiously and his father said, in an almost whisper. "When I'm gone ... promise me that you'll take care of your mother." But he wasn't the strong one; he wasn't supposed to have to watch his father pass into the next world right in front of him. His father was supposed to be the one to take care of his mother, be there to watch him get married, watch him grow up.
"Do you promise, son?" Of course there was only one logical answer, and it escaped his lips even though he wasn't quite sure what exactly that meant. He could feel as though some powerful magic had just made him and his father closer in that moment than they'd ever been before. It was as if, in that moment, he had a glimpse of what the world was supposed to be and all of the love and hope that it contained because in that moment, he realized how much his father loved him, even though, looking back years later, he couldn't recall if his father actually said the words or that he just remembered it that way.
It was just a watch, but it was yet another reminder of the promise he'd made. He unconsciously rubbed its face again and reality snapped back into view. He set the watch aside, promising himself that he'd take the time to get it fixed. After all, it was more than just a random useless gift; it was a birthday gift from his father, his hero.
So much had changed, and yet nothing important had. His mother still lived in the same house, partially perhaps because on some level, it was still full of the memories of him, and partially because it just didn't seem fair to move on without him.
Deep down, he wondered if his father would be proud of him; would he approve of his life? What would he say if only he was there once more? He had no way of knowing whether or not he was doing the right thing, but he always tried to live right, be a good person, and love with his whole heart.
These thoughts of his father were overshadowed, as the time passed, by the complexity and ordinary business of daily life. But in the back of his mind, he always strove to be the person his father was, and be the man who never broke a promise ...

Part of my Novel (PUZZLEMENT)

PUZZLEMENT
I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word in reality. This is why right, temporarily defeated, is stronger than evil triumphant.
~ Martin Luther King Jr.

Birthdays were really special to me. They meant that a person was one year older and I couldn’t wait to grow up. Today was my fifth birthday. Five years old. It seemed like such a big number.
Sun was shining through the windows of my bedroom, a hopeful indicator of a good day to come. I kicked the covers toward the end of my bed; for once I didn’t mind getting up. I padded over to the door and peeked into JJamie’s room to see if she was awake yet. She wasn’t. I poked her hard in the arm.
"It’s my birthday!"
"Shut up. Go back to sleep." She rolled over.
I stared at her for a moment, debating whether to poke her again, but decided against it. It was annoying she didn’t seem to care it was my birthday.
The old wooden clock downstairs told me that it was 10:00 a.m. It was late and no one was yet up. Other than the snoring I could hear from Mom’s bedroom, the rest of the house was quiet.
A quick glance outside revealed Dad’s truck was gone. I felt a stab of disappointment. His trips to the woods meant he wouldn’t be home until late, and he hadn’t asked me to go with him.
I sat on the couch and stared at a blank television. Turning it on would mean trouble. It seemed as though everyone had forgotten my birthday. No one talked about it or brought it up. It was the only time of the year I got a present.
I wracked my brain to try and remember when the last time they had actually spoken about my birthday. As I sat on the couch, I recalled the terrible events that had led up to today.
It started with an argument, like it always did. Like always, it ended with Mom screaming, Dad yelling, and then the all too familiar sound of the screen door slamming closed.
Normally, the subjects of their arguments were a mystery to me, some sort of grown-up predicament I hoped would be resolved with as little violence as possible. But this time, as I covered my head with my pillow, I knew it was my fault they were arguing. They were arguing about me.
It had also started earlier that day, during one of our usual trips to the store and my brothers had come along. I always hated it when they came along, because they always made me do things I didn’t want to do.
I found myself in the toy isle, a small collection of books, crayons, markers, and games. Someone grabbed my hand roughly, and I looked up with a start. It was Jay, gripping me so that I couldn’t let go.
"Come here." He whispered, pulling me toward the candy isle.
He picked up a snickers bar and some gum. "Put these in your pockets." He said.
"No."
He punched me twice on my arm. "Put these in your pockets or when you get home we will hurt you." He shoved the candy into my hands.
"Hurry up! Put it in your pockets."
I tried to put the candy back on the shelves, but this time, he pinched my arm, hard.
"Do it." He hissed.
Trembling, I put the candy in my pockets. I didn’t know what to do. Maybe when he turned around, I could put it back on the shelves.
Just then, Dad came up with a cart of groceries. "Let’s get going. Go get your brother."
Jay disappeared around the corner. I knew that I only had a few moments alone. I was trembling and afraid. And I couldn’t bring myself to put the candy back.
"Time to go!" Jay announced, grabbing my arm again.
I could barely breathe and my heart was racing. It felt like it was suddenly a million degrees in the store. It seemed to take forever for Dad to go through the line and the telephone at the checkstand kept ringing.
When the clerk finally picked up the phone, she focused her eyes on me. I tried to hide behind Dad, but then a larger clerk came and spoke briefly to the clerk. Then, he said something that I didn’t hear. Dad looked down at me, surprised.
The next thing I know, my pockets were emptied and the stolen candy revealed. His look of disappointment overwhelmed me, and I began to cry. I glanced quickly around, looking for my brothers, but they were nowhere to be found.
We paid for the other items, and rode home in silence. When we arrived at the house, Dad stopped the truck, but didn’t get out. We sat there for a moment before he said, "We aren’t going to tell this to your mother. She doesn’t need to know. Understand?" He looked at my brothers expectantly.
It was only later that I learned that they had said something anyway. Mom was angrier than I had seen her in a long time. They fought and after Dad’s usual disappearance, she came for me. She took me out onto the porch, made me pick out a piece of splintered cedar from the wood box, and then hit me over and over again. I tried to tell her the truth, but it didn’t seem to be the truth she wanted to hear.
The one thing Mom always demanded to know when she hit me was why. That seemed to be the only answer I didn’t know.
Finally, out of desperation and pain, I told her that I was hungry; that was the reason I had stolen the candy. At one point, I put my hand behind my back in order to prevent her from hitting me any longer, and she just kept hitting me anyway, giving my arm a few painful whacks and then hitting me harder for trying to defend myself.
The whole time, she said things like, "This is hurting me more than it’s hurting you." But I didn’t understand how that could possibly be true; I was the one who would wake up in the morning unable to move.
When I was safely in my room, unable to sleep from the pain, I reflected on the events of the day. All I could think was that Dad wasn’t there to protect me. He wasn’t there when I needed him the most.
I felt hopeless and lost, and cried myself to sleep.
It seemed that after my worst beatings, Dad always found a way to take me to the store. Another excuse to get out of the house, for both of us.
"I’m going to take Dawn to the store." He announced one morning.
"She doesn’t deserve to go."
"It’s almost her birthday."
"Do you deserve to go to the store?" she looked at me.
I didn’t know what to say. If it appeared for even a moment that I actually wanted to go to the store, she would find a reason to not let me go.
"No." I replied sullenly, pretending I didn’t care one way or the other. But I did care; I couldn’t wait to get out.
"Take the little beast with you." She sneered. "But she doesn’t deserve to have a birthday."
When we were safely in the truck, it refused to start as always. I was anxious to go before she changed her mind. The truck responded to the turn of the ignition with coughs and sputters. After a few more tries and some cursing from Dad, the Ford roared to life.
It was only when we were out of sight I began to relax.
"Ah, that woman!" Dad understood me; it was as if he was acknowledging feelings I didn’t have to explain.
We got to the store, and I found myself terrified to go in. I grabbed Dad’s hand and looked down at the floor. It felt like everyone was staring at me and my face stayed red the whole time. The clerks would certainly always remember me as the girl who stole from them and I couldn’t bring myself to look at them as we passed.
I stayed as close to Dad during the whole trip as I could, not wanting to leave his side. But when we got to the meat section, I knew it was annoying him.
"Honey, go play." He told me.
Reluctantly, I walked slowly down the isle toward the place I loved so much. There were the same old boring coloring books-Transformers, Superman and Friends, Barbie. But as I moved them aside, a small box caught my eye. It was a picture of a giant chocolate chip cookie with a bite taken out. I picked it up, and realized in excitement that it was a puzzle! It was perfect.
Smiling, I raced to find Dad. As always, his answer was the same. "Okay angel. I don’t have the money to get it today, but if it’s still here the next time, I’ll get it for you, okay?"
"But Dad, it will be gone!" I had never seen such a marvelous thing at the store before. It was better than a coloring book or stickers. I knew that if we didn’t get it right then, it wasn’t going to be there when we got back. But Dad refused, and I put it back on the shelf, hiding it under the coloring books.
The day passed, as it always did. I was in trouble, so play time was not allowed. The next few days, I spent countless time thinking about that cookie puzzle and how much fun it would be to put it together.
A few days later we returned to the store, and I couldn’t wait to get there. All I kept talking about was the cookie puzzle. Dad seemed surprised that I still wanted it. "If it’s still there, you can have it." He chuckled, reminding me that someone else might have bought it in our absence during the week.
I raced to my favorite isle, dug through the pile of coloring books, and discovered that my puzzle, the thing I had waited for, was gone.
Determined, I kept looking-digging through the books. Checking twice. Three times. Maybe it was somewhere else in the isle. I checked the rest of the home goods-the sewing section, the light bulbs, the cleaning supplies. Where else could it possibly be? I walked up and down the isles, scanning near the bottom shelves. Maybe someone had picked it up only to set it down again. It wasn’t long before I found my dad.
"I can’t find it." I whined.
"You can’t always get what you want," was his nonchalant reply. That was it? Here I had waited a whole week only to come back and discover it gone? It was more than I could bear. Mustering up my courage, I approached one of the store clerks. He seemed about the same age as my dad, only taller and much larger in the stomach. "Yes?" he looked down at me uncertainly, as if he didn’t know how to deal with small children.
"There’s a puzzle …" I started. But I realized I hadn’t known what to say and suddenly I was embarrassed.
"A puzzle?" A strange look spread across his face. I was bothering him.
"I was looking for this puzzle I saw here before." I managed.
"Really?" he wiped his hands on his apron. "We don’t usually sell puzzles, I don’t think. But I’ll help you look for it, okay?"
I nodded, taking the lead down the aisle to where the toys were. He claimed the store didn’t sell puzzles, but clearly it did because I had seen that puzzle. Perhaps he didn’t even know where the toy aisle was let alone what to find there. I doubted he had any kids.
"See? No puzzles here." Was his brisk reply, not even having taken more than a minute to help me look. He didn’t even bother to ask anyone else. "Okay." I took one last look through the shelves and then gave up. Clearly, it wasn’t there. Someone else probably had seen how neat it was and had taken it home. I missed out, again. I feeling of disappointment surged through me and nothing else I looked at seemed to even come close to the value of that puzzle.
I found my dad again. When he encouraged me to go play, I just remained by his side, staying silent.
"You really wanted that puzzle, didn’t you?" he said as we left the store.
"Yeah."
Our ride home was spent in silence. I was thankful, for it was one of the few times when silence was welcome. As we drove, I reflected on the fact that despite the few toys I had, somehow that puzzle was the only thing I wanted.
The only consolation seemed to be that my fifth birthday was coming up and I was really excited about it because it was a chance to get another toy if I was really lucky. It wasn’t so much the idea of getting something that excited me, it was the idea of the surprise. Something nice they had to do just for me. It was my birthday. The only day out of the year it got to be all about me.
It seemed as though the days couldn’t pass quickly enough. I was such a good girl. I did more chores in the next few days than ever before; I even volunteered for extra projects-just for a chance to get a birthday present. My mind continually focused on Mom’s words that I didn’t deserve one. If only she knew who I really was, would she say that about me? Would she call me undeserving? Would she call me names then? If she knew that I wasn’t the one who wanted to steal anything, who even thought of such things. Would she even care to know it was the idea of her precious, favorite son?
With all the extra chores, the days flew by. I didn’t have much extra time to beg the boys to play with me anymore. So when they took off on their usual adventures, I did not attempt to go with them or try to figure out where they had gone.
One morning, while our parents were asleep, Jamie and I were peeling potatoes for breakfast. Chris started searching through the cupboards, excited.
"What are you doing?" Jamie asked him.
"Looking for something."
"Duh. What are you looking for?"
"More candles." Was his only reply.
"For what?" Jamie’s hands were on her hips now, their usual resting place.
"For what?" Chris mocked her voice.
"You’re acting more and more like Jay every day."
"Shut up." He kept banging the cupboards closed loudly.
"You shut up!" she hissed. "You’re going to wake up Mom. I’ll tell you where the candles are if you tell me why you want them."
With that, he stopped. "It’s actually really cool." He said proudly. "If I show you what we’re doing, you have to promise not to tell anyone!"
Jamie shrugged, "Who am I going to tell?"
"Her." He pointed to me.
The whole time they had been talking, I had been standing there quietly, potato in one hand, peeler in the other, listening to their conversation. Even though I knew they hated it when I overheard their conversations, my curiosity had gotten the better of me, as it often did.
"She won’t tell anyone."
"Yes, she’ll go running to Daddy, and then we’ll all get into trouble." He emphasized the word Daddy as if to remind me that my dad was not his father, but rather his step-father, a person they detested.
"I will not!" I protested. "I want to know what’s going on!"
"Shhhh!" they spoke in unison.
"She won’t tell." Jamie looked back at him.
He looked at me. "You have to promise you won’t tell anyone."
"I won’t tell. I promise." I was anxious to know what the secret was. I would have promised just about anything to find out what they were up to.
"You better not." He grinned.
Jamie got a chair and stood on top of it, opening cupboards far above my head. She pulled out several large candles and matches. She handed me some to carry, as if to make me know that I was definitely in on whatever they were doing.
I could tell from the way she looked at him curiously, that she was not sure what they were up to either.
We headed silently out the front door and Chris led us back toward the barn. The barn was an older wooden building in the back of the house that housed chickens, goats, and rabbits as well as their feed, hay, and miscellaneous other items including the lawn mower and all of Dad’s woodcutting tools.
Puzzled, both Jamie and I followed him quickly to the barn, almost breaking into a run to catch up.
We opened the door to the barn as quietly as we could to avoid the loud crack it often made as it swung closed. Rays of sunlight peeked into the barn from the random places where the wood was inconsistent or not firmly fit together. But it still took my eyes time to adjust.
"What are we doing here?" Jamie asked Chris, but looked at me. I simply shrugged.
Jamie grabbed me by the hand and we followed Chris past the rabbit cages on the left and back toward where hay bales from the season before we stacked up against the far back wall. The barn had a particular smell, one that I loved. It was a mixture of freshly cut grass, animals, and life.
The hay bales, which at one time were neatly stacked and orderly, were now placed at odd angles and into a strange configuration. We could hear someone or something in the back of the barn.
"Get in here!" I heard Jay demanded.
I stared down at the two candles I saw, and couldn’t bring myself to go into the center of the fort. "The candles!" I gasped.
"Shut up and get in here … now!" Jamie demanded. But it was no use. I wouldn’t budge. I backed up as fast as I could, despite more protests –including threats from the boys. As soon as I was safely out of the fort, I left the barn as fast as I could, my heart beating loudly in my chest.
But I was afraid and stood outside the barn, breathing hard. Didn’t they know what they were doing? The hay was mostly wet, or damp, true, but it could still catch on fire. It wasn’t all damaged by the elements; dad had seen to that.
My mind raced with the possibilities. I was especially afraid for Jamie. If the hay caught on fire while they were inside, they could die… and so would the animals.
A few minutes passed, and I could see the three of them emerge from the barn. I silently hoped that they had extinguished the flames of the candles before they left. They looked annoyed by me and passed me, saying, "Not a word."
I didn’t say a word. I didn’t want to be a "tattle tale" and partly, I hoped to earn their trust. They were only my half brothers and sister and it always seemed like they had their own secret club that I was never a part of. More days passed and still I said nothing. One morning, I woke up late and, like I always did on a beautiful day, sat by the window to admire the beauty outside. I dared not go downstairs lest the day begin and I wanted to enjoy myself just a bit more. It seemed as though the moment Mom heard any movement, she would assign chores, wake up, and start our day of working.
I glanced outside and it was practically cloudless. The sun was shining brightly and the birds were singing their usual happy chorus. I watched as the moisture on the roof of the barn dissipated into the early morning sun. But that’s when I realized that it wasn’t dew but black, angry smoke rising from the building. As quickly as I could, I put my shoes on and raced outside. Dad was already there, running in and out of the barn. He was wheeling out the lawnmower when I found him.
"Get inside the house, now!" He yelled, his voice panicked and harsh.
I immediately obeyed. I waited inside Mom’s greenhouse for signs it was over. But I could hear more yelling and heard the boys being told the same thing.
When it was over, half the barn lay in ruin. I don’t know if any of the rabbits or other animals were hurt, because Dad wouldn’t let me into the barn for weeks. A part of me believes that they had to have been, because given the damage to the barn; there was no way the animals in that section of the barn could have lived.
I had never seen my dad so furious. He yelled at Jay and Chris. Nothing escaped him; he knew exactly who it was. When the yelling was done, I could see that he held in his hand two of the candles, now charred and grotesque looking, that had been recovered from the barn.
No one even questioned whether or not I had started the fire; dad knew me. For once, I felt safe. Safe that is, until Dad started questioned them about their involvement.
I think they would have given in, would have admitted that they were responsible, but Mom came in the room and suddenly their story changed. Before long, the fire was my fault. Jamie claimed she had seen me carting off candles to the barn; suddenly candles that I had never seen before were produced from my room, supposedly "hidden" by me in an attempt to be sneaky.
Before long, I was accused of starting the fire, and with three witnesses against me, I had no chance of anyone believing me. I didn’t even bother to ask them why, nothing they could say would be a good enough answer.
When Mom beat me, she kept demanding I tell her over and over again why I had taken the candles to the barn. But after my hair had been caught on fire, I had been afraid of fire, terrified of it. I could not possibly think of a reason that would make sense to bring the candles to the barn, so I kept telling her the truth, over and over again. She kept hitting me as if the idea of lying to her was more atrocious than the act itself. As each hit continued to torture me, she did not let up and my cries of pain did not stop her.
At some point, I was so much in pain that I found myself unable to breathe. She continued to demand that I tell the truth; she claimed she would stop if I told her the truth. I started to question whether or not I knew what the truth was anymore. It seemed as though it wasn’t the truth she wanted, but merely for me to acknowledge that I was a bad person and that everything was my fault. But she kept hitting me and I could scarcely think as the pain seemed to radiate in all directions in my back. She didn’t even seem to notice that she was now hitting my lower back, the cedar making a painful loud whack as she struck me again and again. When she paused to ask for me to tell her, I made up a story about how I had taken the candles to the barn when everyone was sleeping. I made up a story, ridiculous and impossible, but she didn’t seem to care. She started to hit me again, this time demanding to know why I had lied to her. She didn’t stop hitting me as she promised, and I had given away my integrity. She demanded over and over again to know why I lied to her. No matter what excuse I gave, she would come up with another reason to hit me.
"Why did you lie to me?"
"Because I was scared to get into trouble."
"Then why did you keep lying to me?""I don’t know." I don’t know had been my standard answer, but her questions came as fast as my lies and the whacks even faster.
"Tell me why you lied."
"I don’t know!" I cried, the pain unbearable, the truth like a fleeting thought I couldn’t hold onto.
"WHY DID YOU LIE TO ME?"
"Because I’m a bad girl." I cried out in sheer desperation. Those were the magic words, because she stopped. At long last, she threw the cedar block back into the wood bin.
I pulled up my pants, wincing in pain as the cloth rubbed against my tender backside.
"That’s what you get for lying to me. You don’t seem to learn anything." Her arms were folded now, her eyes distant and cold.
"Now you are going to go to bed." She demanded, pointing inside.
I walked slowly past her, watching her out of the corner of my eye, shaking and afraid to turn my back lest she grab me. She didn’t, but she kept watching me, all the same. Every movement hurt, but I was afraid to show her how much because I feared she would only say something more or do something else. I made my way slowly up the stairs, using the railing to help me. I remember one leg hurting so much that I had to put very little weight on it.
When I got to my room, I was afraid to turn around, afraid to look at what had been done. And yet, I felt my body growing hotter by the second. When I got to my room, all I remember is turning around and seeing something terribly wrong. The backs of my legs had welts the size of softballs sticking out, swollen and hot. Sometime after, I must have collapsed.
I woke up, and found ice packs had been placed under my legs. Jamie stood above me, positioning my legs. Apparently, I must have passed out from the pain, and she picked me up and put me in bed. We didn’t say a word to mom, and luckily she didn’t come up the stairs for us that night.

Suddenly, everything I did was regarded with suspicion. Everything I did was carefully watched and criticized. I didn’t get to play outside or sit in my swing for a very long time. Every day, Mom made me work in her greenhouse, forced to water the plants for hours, clean up dead leaves, replant the pots she had broken in her fits of anger, and stay out of her way. Everything that had gone wrong was my fault; every bad thing that had happened was because of me. I was treated like a bad seed, and Mom often told me how "rotten to the core" I was. She couldn’t believe she had given birth to such an "evil" child. And yet, I kept quiet and kept on watering the plants. My fifth birthday was coming up, and suddenly it didn’t matter anymore.
A few days before my birthday, Dad produced a package and put it next to their bed. I knew it was my birthday present; it was the only time of year when we got anything special. Suddenly, everything that had happened the last couple of weeks dissolved into the curiosity of wanting to know what was in that package. I made excuses to walk by their room when Mom wasn’t there, just so I could try and figure out what it was. The tedious hours spent watering plants melted away as I pondered the mystery of the brown package. There wasn’t much else to think about or look forward to.
The night before my birthday, Dad and Mom got into a giant fight as to whether or not I would get my birthday present.
"She doesn’t deserve it. I think we should take it back." Mom’s voice was demanding.
"It’s hers. I’m not taking it back." Dad’s voice was adamant.
Around and around they went. Mom finally yanked the door open and stared down at me. She had set me to hand wash the entire living room floor.
"You don’t deserve to have a birthday this year, do you?" She stared at me with those piercing blue eyes of hers.
I didn’t know what to say, but the worst response was no response.
"No." I kept on washing the floor.
"That’s right." She snarled. "You don’t deserve a birthday. Therefore, you’re not going to have one."
The days passed slowly; I was given more chores than normal. I somehow had convinced myself that if I did the chores without complaint, I would be reward with whatever it was that was in that package. I hoped that maybe by my birthday, they would forget that I was the "bad child."
The day of my fifth birthday, as I sat on the couch, I recounted all of the events that had happened that had led up to this day. As the day wore on, no one even brought up my birthday. Maybe they forgot! So I decided to say something about it.
"It’s a very special day!" I told my sister, bouncing up and down in front of her.
"I already told you, go away!" she hissed. I left her alone. But later, while she was cleaning the kitchen, I decided to check the fridge to see if they had a cake hidden away for me. There was nothing there.
"There’s no cake." I sighed loudly, shutting the door.
"Shhh." Jamie put her finger to her mouth. "Mom will hear you and wake up!"
"But it’s my birrrthdayy!" I whined. "And you haven’t even said anything to me. You didn’t even wish me a happy birthday!"
Jamie grabbed my arm and looked down at me. "Listen. Mom told us we aren’t allowed to talk about your birthday. So if I were you, I’d just shut up about it already."
So there it was; Mom had decided not to even acknowledge my day. Worse, she had told everyone else not to bring it up either.
"But why?" I protested, even though I already knew the answer. "You could at least wish me a Happy Birthday!" I protested.
"Happy Birthday!" she whispered. "Now leave me alone before we both get into trouble."
I was so upset that I started to cry, and ran out the front door before she could stop me. It was my fifth birthday and Mom told everyone that we weren’t going to celebrate it this year. The one thing I had to look forward to had been taken away from me.
I busied myself with my chores, and tried to forget that it was supposed to be my birthday. I kept singing the words over and over again to myself, but it didn’t feel the same. Usually, I’d get a cake made just for me on my birthday. We didn’t have much money, so cake was rare in our house. Celebrating anything was rarer still. My birthday was being taken away from me for something I hadn’t even done. The thought of it all made me angry at my brothers and especially at my sister for not sticking up for me.
Later that evening, dinner was especially quiet. I was usually the least quiet of everyone; I always had something to say. But today, the sadness I felt couldn’t be lifted. Mom continued to stare at me throughout my meal. I could feel her eyes watching me as I put bite after bite into my mouth, not daring to look up. One by one, everyone else finished their dinners first and asked to be excused. As usual, I was the last one left at the table; it was just Mom and me. The silence made me anxious. At some point, she said, "It’s your birthday today."
I looked up, surprised. Maybe I had been wrong after all.
"Yes!" I dared to let excitement creep into my voice.
She got up from the table and brought me that brown package I had waited so long to open.
"Your dad should have taken this back; you don’t deserve it." She plopped the package in front of me.
I didn’t dare answer, for fear that she would change her mind.
"Open it." She demanded.
"Really?" I looked down at the package wondering if it was a trick.
"Hurry up." She responded. I tore into the brown package with a fury, and there it was-the puzzle I had so desperately wanted. It came in a small box and it was perfect.
I just stared down at it, and couldn’t help but smile. Dad had remembered! That’s why I wasn’t able to find it at the store. He had gone back and gotten it for me.
"May I be excused?" I asked, picking up the puzzle.
"You may." She responded, but she had a strange look on her face. "But you can’t have the puzzle."
I looked up at her curiously.
"I just wanted you to see what you were missing out on." She replied, picking up the puzzle with her bony skeleton hands.
"You don’t deserve to have it. So when I feel you deserve it, I will give it to you. But not until then. Do you understand?"
"Yes." My heart sank. She had given me the puzzle only to take it away again.
Worse, she placed it on her dresser, right where she knew I could see it, and it sat there for weeks and weeks. I tried to convince myself I didn’t want the stupid puzzle anyways, but I did. I pictured putting it together over and over again, and imagining what it might be like to get to eat the cookie. Sometimes I imagined that I would wake up from the bad dream I was having and she would hand me the puzzle and tell me how sorry she was for having taken it away, but she didn’t.
Some time later, Dad saw it sitting on the dresser and mistakenly assumed I had left it there after playing. I don’t think he had any idea she had ever kept it from me. He handed me the box, to my amazement, and said, "Here you go pumpkin. Make sure you put that away so your Mom doesn’t get upset that it’s out."
I knew I wasn’t supposed to get it, but I was so excited, I couldn’t say a word. I took the puzzle up to my room and hid it underneath my pillow. I didn’t dare attempt to put it together just yet.
When Mom found out that Dad had given me the puzzle, she was furious, but after yet another fight, the battle was won. It ended in a flurry of thrown items and slammed doors, but in the end, they seemed to forget why they were fighting. I had been beaten, tortured over something I hadn’t done, and punished for it. But I was also left with the best birthday present I had ever gotten: a silly puzzle shaped like a cookie with a bite taken out.

Excerpt from my book

Okay, so a few of you have requested I put a chapter or two up here on Myspace and I have been really hesitant because ... well because it's so personal. But I found part of the book I feel comfortable sharing with the world. It's a little lighter than a lot of the rest of the book.
CHAPTER TWO -
Currently Untitled

Kindness in words creates confidence. Kindness in thinking creates profoundness. Kindness in giving creates love."
Lao-Tzu



Waking up in the morning was always the most difficult thing for me. I would lay, stretched out comfortable and warm in my bed, and the thought of facing the cold morning air and the rest of the day made me want to roll back over and sleep the day away. But as always, Allen and Jeremy would make sure that I was awake-one way or another. Some days it was merely a rough shake to my shoulder. But once, when I refused to get out of bed because Mom had kept me up so late the night before, they thought themselves clever by holding me down and pouring a cold glass of water on my head. I sprang out of bed, outraged and shocked that I was drenched. The threat of the return of the water treatment as they called it, worked for a few months, but after a while getting out of bed became more and more of a struggle.
There was something about being in bed, snuggling under the warm, thick quilt, that made me feel safer somehow. Sleeping was one of the few activities that made me feel happy, peaceful. There were days when all I wanted to do was to sleep. Being warm and comfortable was one of the only things that I looked forward to. Most days, despite my great reluctance to leave my the warmth of my bed behind, I always made it out of bed in time to watch my sister and brothers leave for school. It was almost as if I was programmed, and no matter what time it was, my body would wake me up no matter how tired I was.
Every morning, as they prepared to leave, I made sure they said goodbye to me as they headed out the door to catch the bus. I would wait in my pajamas, right next to the door if they were in a hurry, with my favorite teddy Bear in hand so that he could get kissed goodbye as well.
One particular Friday morning, the temperature had dipped below freezing the night before, settling a thin, cool white blanket of ice over the ground. It almost looked like snow in a way, the way it covered everything so delicately, so perfectly. It was going to snow sometime soon, I could feel it. My room was extremely chilly and undoubtedly the fire had gone out sometime during the night and would have to be made again in order to heat up the house. Though they were much too big for me, I wore my dads old thermal pajamas that he had given me once, and could still feel the chilly morning air. The pajama arms extended far past my arms and feet and I thought about rolling out of bed, but then I remembered to roll up the legs else I trip and fall on my face-again.
I remember that it was almost light outside, and I had no idea what time it was; I didnt have a clock in my room. Everyone must have been late, because no one had bothered to hurriedly wake me as they always did. The rooms were all empty, and I heard movements downstairs. I quickly grabbed Bear and my big, pink, fluffy slippers and plodded quickly across the upper landing and down the stairs. Amie was making a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich and both boys were quickly loading their bags with books.
What are you guys doing? I asked groggily.
Unlike you, we have to go to school, remember? Amie snapped, screwing the peanut butter lid on the jar.
When do I get to go to school? I knew I was whining, but I didnt care.
Later.
But Im smart enough. I insisted, and I was ready to prove it. "I can count all the way to 25. Listen. "1 ... 2 ... 3 ... 4 ... 5 ... 6 ... 7 ... 8 ... 9"
Will you shut up? Youre being a brat! Go back to sleep. She had finished making the sandwich and was wrapping it with plastic wrap.
I am not!
My brothers, who had so far ignored our conversation, exchanged grinning looks with one another; they were up to something. As they headed past me toward the door, Alan reached out and smacked me hard on the head with his hand. Jeremy snickered.
Owww! I protested.
They were in a hurry to get out the door, and even though I was angry with Alan for hitting me, I didnt want them to leave, not yet.
Goodbye! I waved to them, holding Teddy Bear in front of me. They didnt answer, and most of the time, I didnt expect them to give me one; sometimes they would and sometimes they wouldnt. But I knew that Amie would say goodbye, and then she would kiss me, and then they could go to school. Then I would feel okay if they left.
Dont forget to kiss me goodbye. I waited expectantly by the door.
I dont have time today. Amie walked right past me without even looking in my direction. It was all too much for me to handle.
Please kiss me goodbye! I pleaded from the doorway, watching as they walked across the lawn toward the driveway. The morning air flowed through my pajamas as if they werent even there, and I was reluctant to follow them out into the cold. But despite my plea, they had not returned to say goodbye, so I began to follow them, wandering out in the cool morning air holding Teddy even closer for some warmth.
Alan and Jeremy turned around to look at me and motioned to Amie. They had almost reached the gate that extended around the house. My sleeves became unrolled and now extended past my feet, fighting my slippers as I walked.
It must have been some sight, me walking with my disheveled long hair, Dads thermal pajamas, and Teddy as I scuffed along toward them in my big slippers. The boys pointed and laughed and it was Amie who said, Go back inside the house right now!
Without thinking about the fact that I was getting colder by the second, I proceeded directly outside the house. I wanted to go back in, but they still had not kissed me goodbye. Didnt they realize how much it meant to me? I didnt know exactly myself, why it meant so much to me, it just did. The more I thought about it, the more worried I became about it. They always said goodbye; Amie always kissed her. What would happen if they didnt say goodbye on this one day? I continued on toward them. They were now walking up the driveway and toward the second gate that lined the edge of our property and of my world.
They were making quite a lot of distance, so I started running to try and catch up. My slippers and long legs worked against me, however, and they seemed determined to hinder my getting to them-but I ran on anyway. I forgot how cold it was as I hurried to get to them before they went too far. They had reached the gate, and I was desperate. I had started to cry as the desperation of what I was doing started to sink in to me.
Wait! I shouted. Waiiiitttt! I was out of breath and the cold air made it more difficult to breathe.
This time, they stopped, and looked at my as if they could not believe I had come so far.
You didnt kiss me goodbye! I tried to catch my breath.
Oh Sarah! Amies exasperate voice was also full of concern. She walked over to me, leaned down, and kissed me on the cheek.
Please kiss Teddy too! I held him up expectantly, and Amie gave him a quick kiss too.
Now go back to the house now! Amie instructed. Stop following us. We have to go to school now.
I turned around and realized why they were so surprised to see me. Our farmhouse was quite some distance away. I hadnt realized exactly how far Id gone.
After watching them disappear around the corner, I made my way back, not even caring that I was scuffing my slippers on the big rocks along the way. As I continued walking, it was then that I realized that my fingers had grown extremely numb, as had my toes. When I finally made it back to the house, I was relieved and surveyed the damage. My fingers werent too bad, just a little pink and quite numb. I knew that the fire was rapidly dying but worried that it had gone out completely. Hopefully it had not so that I could just simply put some wood on it and get it going again. I really didnt know how to start a fire, only keep it going.
Fire always scared me, the way it was so unpredictable and hurt if I came to close. Sometimes after I would put wadded newspaper inside to catch an ember, it would catch so quickly that the flames would lick the outside edges of the door, and I would shut it as fast as I could, my heart pounding. Most of the time, I did my best to stay away from the fireplace and only ventured over when no one else was around to put another piece of wood in. I walked over to the aged wood stove, turned the metal handle and pulled open the heavy black door. The logs had been reduced to cinders, but there was still enough to get the fire going again perhaps if I put some kindling and paper on it. I gathered a handful of the foot long, two inch thick cedar pieces and threw them into the stove. I added wadded newspapers from the two foot high stack that sat next to the coffee table. Mom would never miss the newspapers, hopefully wouldnt even notice that they were gone. I watched the wadded paper begin to curl slightly, smoke, and then catch on fire quickly catching the rest of the newspaper and the dry kindling as well. We were almost out of kindling, and I was thankful. One less weapon. I put the sticks in one by one and watched as they caught fire, hoping that one of them had been used as my punishment. Good, it was gone now. As quickly as I dared, I put a log on top of the kindling and shut the stove, opening the vent to make sure the fire could breathe. There. The fire was made so the house would be warm and Mom would have no reason to get up early. I had been kissed goodbye. The day was going to be all right.