The NEWEST instalment of my story and the beginning one, too

[RenegadeChic77]

Here I am sitting in this little makeshift corner trying to hide myself. Maybe he won’t see me. I doubt it though- this house is so small. Nothing compared to our old one in New York.
My dad decided to move to the heart of New Delhi. “American money is worth so much more over there,” Dad had said, “We’ll be rich.” And we were for quite some time- maybe a month at the most. That’s a lot, too, considering my dad has never been out of debt for more than 5 minutes. Then Dad used up all of his money drinking, and without a job, there was no way to get it back.
So now, here I am in the slums of wherever. We have traveled so far for so long, I’m not sure Heaven even knows where we are. Dad is out drinking again, using the small bit of money we found on a crowded city street. When he comes back home, which may not be for a day or more, he will be furious there is no dinner. I cannot help this, though. How can I buy food without money? I certainly have nothing to hunt with. Even if I did, what is there to hunt here? We live on a garbage dump. We are miles away from water, and what little we get is covered with scum. Dad says it is full of nutrients and forces me to eat it. I wish I was back in New York with a roof over my head, even if it leaked. At least there was food on the table every night, and a secret place in the attic to hide from the drunken version of Dad. And I had friends.
Our house is fairly big compared to our neighbor’s. It might actually resemble a few refrigerator boxes, if it didn’t have so many holes in it. Thank God it doesn’t rain.
We don’t have a lot of garbage in our yard. Most of our neighbors do, and it smells terrible. I guess it’s because we move around so much, and because we don’t eat anything. Maybe we will find half a banana in the street… Dad eats the fruit and I get the skin. That’s the way it goes.
It’s dark now, and Dad still is not back. I am not worried, though. Maybe I can actually sleep tonight. Maybe I can find food. I am afraid to leave, though. If Dad does come back he will be furious at me and leave. He won’t come back. Then I would be stuck in the middle of this place and probably die. I don’t know the language like my father does. I don’t know anyone. I don’t know their culture. Maybe these people hate us who cannot speak their language. Maybe I could live here as a mute and not speak at all. That is what my neighbors think I am. Then again, I could just stay. One night without food will not be the end of my life… or maybe it will.

Dad is back now. I am here in this little corner hoping he won’t see me. My spot would be obvious to the naked eye. My father must be very drunk since he does not see me. He wants his food. What can I do? Where can I go? What can I say? I cannot do anything without food or money. I cannot go anywhere. I cannot say anything for he has scared me so bad. I just sit here and wait for him to see me. He does not. Instead, he picks up our only pitcher, chipped as it maybe, and throws it. That was the only belonging we had, other than the clothes on our backs. Maybe I can find some glue and repair it when he leaves. Who would leave a bottle of glue just sitting there in the street? No one. At least I won’t have the responsibility of keeping it anymore. It is less to carry. I am so weak that just lifting the pitcher brings me to my knees. He sees me.
My real name is Maybel. Dad only calls me ‘Girl’. “Girl, get me my money.” “Girl, get me my food!” But now he looks at me lovingly. “Hey, Girl. We are leaving now, Honey, so lets go.”
He is out of money. Again. Maybe we can find some on the street, or maybe we can find some food. Maybe. But I doubt it. We have nothing to pack, so we leave. Dad steps over the broken pitcher, but I pick up a piece and carry it with me. Maybe it will come in handy.
We walk in silence, me a few steps behind him. He never looks back once to see if I am following. I could have fallen, and he would not know until he wanted me to cook his food. Too bad there isn’t any for him to have. But it is his fault If only we had stayed in New York, maybe there we could have some food.
No, that is not the reason. If Dad had not been so drunk on that night, maybe Mom would still be alive. Maybe we would still be in New York, eating real food with real utensils in a real house with money and real beds. I hate my father.
I know quite a way from my dad, but I don’t have the energy to keep up. He still has not looked back. I wonder if he would even look back if I screamed. “Dad,” I say. He is running now. He is getting farther and farther away from me. “Dad! Wait!” He keeps on running, and I am too weak to try to catch up. “Dad! Stop!” He is gone now. Out in the distance on the horizon. Gone forever. I know he will not double back to find me. I am lost. I will die.

I am looking down at the ground now. I am moving, but my feet are still. I have a bad headache. “Shh,” Dad says. Dad! I don’t think I have ever been so happy to see somebody I hate in such a long time. “It was a dream,” he says. “I looked back and you were on the ground.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a clear bottle with a clear liquid inside it, and takes a drink. Then he says something that makes me angry- “You must be hungry!”
“Hungry? I was starving, Dad, and you never once noticed! I went for days without food- it got to the point that the scum on old water tasted good. But how could you notice? You were never there in the first place!” Dad looks startled, like he did when the police officers came to our house that night and told us Mom was dead. He sits down, and starts to cry, drinking between tears. “I’m so sorry, Elizabeth! I really am sorry…”
“My name is not Elizabeth, Dad! I am not your wife, I am not Mom… I am not Elizabeth!” Dad is now furious and he looks ready to kill. All his liquid is gone.
“You are what I say you are… you will do what I tell you to do… and right now I am telling you to walk… walk straight ahead and do not look back, or I will hurt you.”
“How will I know if you follow me or not?”
“Who cares if I follow you? I am just your father… the careless one who does not know when his daughter is hungry or thirsty and who spends all his money on drinks and never comes home for days. So why should I bother to follow you? You will be better without me… maybe some nice man or woman will take you in and treat you like a daughter! Maybe they will take you back to New York so you can live with your friends… you can have all the food and water you want, never be hungry, thirsty, or tired. You can go back to school… but only if you find the right person to live with. Won’t your life be so much better without me?”
“No, Daddy! I love you no matter what you do… I don’t want to leave you… Daddy, please don’t make me do this! I am sorry for being so bratty! Please, Daddy!”
“I said don’t turn back… walk, now!”

Now I am in a small town… I do not know the language, I do not know where I am, I do not know anyone here, and I do not know what to do. What if they hate skinny, undernourished American girls who can’t speak the language? What if they decide to eat me or torture me or torture me then eat me? Stop it, I am not on a desert island.
I am sitting down on a curb, watching the people go by. They are darker skinned than I am, but are also not as dark as the people in India. It isn’t as sandy here, either. The roads are paved, there are trees, and it is not so hot. The houses look nice, almost like poorer houses in New York. I like it here. Maybe I will be lucky and someone will come along and offer their house to me. I wish I knew the language… then again, maybe people will take pity on me and keep me in their house and feed me.
I am about to fall asleep when someone taps me on the shoulder and begins to talk to me… in English.
“Are you lost?” It is a little old granny, someone who I would not have looked twice at in New York, but am now holding onto for dear life. I do not say anything, but she motions for me to come with her. I follow her like a shadow.
She leads me to a house… a real house made out of bricks. It has glass windows and a porch and a shingled roof and looks like my old house. Except that there are no broken steps or windows, no holes in the roof.
“Where are your parents?” She asks me. I do not respond, so she repeats what she said in a different language.
“I know English,” That’s all I can say, all I want to say. She does not need to know about Dad yet, and New York. She knows all she needs to for now.
“What is your name?” She asks. She does not need to know this, either. I do not answer, so she says, “If you do not tell me your name, then I will have no choice but to name you myself. I once had a granddaughter named Amy… but you do not look like an Amy. You could be an Abby, though. What do you think?” I just stare at her. How does she know my name? “Well, Abby, it seems as though you are not in the mood to talk to me today. I have a room upstairs- go up the steps and take a left- wait there while I make dinner. You need some food… you must be starved!”
The friendliness of the lady scares me. She acts as though she knows who I am, and I know who she is. She knows my name is Abby. I can tell. She didn’t just make it up- she knows who I am.
What scares me even more is the room. It is a light blue with a quilt bedspread. There is a clock on the nightstand, and several books on a shelf. There is a picture of a Victorian woman in a garden is on one side of the wall, and on the opposite is a mirror. These parts of the room do not scare me- what is on the dresser frightens me. There, in a small gold frame, sits a picture of Mom… she is young in this picture, probably fresh out of high school, but it is her. I know it is her.

The woman and I sit at the table, she is talking to me, but I am too busy eating to pay any attention. Never in all my life has pork tasted so good- and the milk! How creamy and cool it feels against my parched mouth! When I am done, I decide that now is the right time to talk.
“What is your name?” I ask. “You already know mine, and it seems only fair that I can know yours.”
The lady looks shocked, as though no one has ever asked her that before. “My name… you can call me Liz,” She says.
We sit there for a couple of minutes in silence, until she speaks up. “Where are you from?”
“New York,” I say- she doesn’t need to know about my life.
“And where are your parents?” Liz asks as she brings a bite of meat to her lips. “Where are they?”
She does not need to know this. She needs to leave me alone.
Liz eats another piece of meat, and I get up from the table.
“Thank you,” I say quietly, and walk upstairs.
In the room, I sit on the corner of the bed and stare at the picture of my mom. Everyone says I look like her, but I know I do not. In this picture, she has pretty golden curls framing her face, blue eyes and a warm smile. I have brown, straight hair, and brown eyes. My smile is hardly warm anymore, considering I never do that anymore.
I put the picture of Mom on the windowsill, so I can look at her and watch for Dad. Maybe he changed his mind and decided to come find me. Or maybe he just drank more and walked in the opposite direction. I gaze out the window now, not realizing I am falling asleep until a soft knock on the door awakens me.
“Abby, honey, please open up,” It is dark inside the room now, and I fumble for a light switch. When I find one, I open the door. There is Liz with a plate full of warm cookies and milk! “I have something I need to discuss with you.” She looks at the picture on the window, and smiles. “I see you have found her.”

Downstairs at the table, Liz talks about Mom. “She was such a wonderful girl, always full of laughter and cheer. I don’t ever remember her frowning, ever, and she was always so obedient. I can’t believe she married that scumbag of a man!”
How does this woman know Mom? How does she know I am her daughter? I really want to stay quiet, I really do not want this woman to know all about my life, and I really do not want to tell her about it. But I have to ask that question- I really have to ask!
“How do you know her? How do you know I am her daughter?”
“Abby, I know who you are. You should know who I am, and I am quite surprised you don’t. For now, though, it is best for you just to know that I know who you are. I am sorry if I scare you at all, but now is not the time.”
“And why not? That is my mother in the picture, you know my father, and you know me! Why can’t you tell me? Are you some kind of psycho killer woman like in New York? The kind that learns so much about a family and earns their trust, then kills them in their sleep for the money? Who are you?” I am mad now, and all of this yelling is not helping me get healthy again. But I have to know.
Liz looks shocked, “I shouldn’t tell you when you are so unhealthy. You might have a heart attack.”
“I think I can take it, Liz!” I am really mad now. “If I can take days without food, a drunken father, no water, no bed- I think I can handle a few words. Who are you?”
“I will tell you tomorrow, when you have had some rest. Just know that I will not hurt you, because I know you have no money. And even if you did, I couldn’t hurt you,” She tries to give me a hug, but I back away and run upstairs.

When I am there, I think about how kind this woman really is. I hardly know her, and she me, but she is so kind. I have given her lip so many times today- I have refused to talk to her, yelled at her, at ran away from her (if only to upstairs), and still she has not threatened me once. I decide that in the morning I will wake up early and cook her breakfast. I used to be able to make really good eggs and toast- but that was years ago back in New York.
I am sitting on the corner of my bed now, and looking out the window. Maybe Dad will come find me, maybe he will be mad this woman has a picture of Mom.
Mom. I gaze at her picture. Her blonde curls, her blue eyes. I wish she was still alive. Then I wouldn’t be here in this strange woman’s house. I wouldn’t be starving and thin. I wouldn’t be wondering where Dad was.

The rays from the beginning of the sunrise are pouring through the window. I wake up, still dressed in my old clothes, and go downstairs. There are no lights on, no sign of life, and I leave it like that. The sun is enough.
I begin to search through Liz’s cabinets, looking for pans. When I find two, I place them on the stove and begin to look through the fridge for eggs and butter and bread. When I find them I put a slab of butter in each pan to melt. I put several pieces of bread in one pan to fry, and eggs in the other.
A light turns on, and I nearly jump.
“Abby, what are you doing?” Liz asks.
“Making breakfast,” I say. I walk over and turn over the bread and stir the eggs so the become scrambled. “I used to do this all the time back in New York.”
The toast is toasted and the eggs are scrambled, so I turn off the oven. Liz gets out the plates and silverware and we sit down to eat.
“So who are you?” I ask.
"Wait until you are done with your breakfast,” Liz answers
“No! Tell me now, I want to know.”
She sighs and takes another bite of toast. “I am your mother’s stepmother.”

Thats it for now! More later... rc77

 

[southtj]

Ok...I didn't see that coming

 

[jps4jeep]

:?:

 

[LauraBoston]

THAT WAS IT??? Girl, you need to start writing faster!! :lol:

 

[RenegadeChic77]

well i write my story in the computer lave before classes start- which is usually about a 1/2 hour. So that is all for 1/2 hours work- it will be changed again and again lol to make it flow better... there might be more tomorrow, im not sure if i will be at school early... and I could write at home, but I do not have time and it is not at school....