Take My Hand, Let's Get Famous

"Where are you girl!?" My mother yelled.

"Coming!" I said weakly. As I ran down the stairs to find her I wondered what I had done wrong this time.

"Why isn't this floor clean?" She asked menacingly when I entered the kitchen.

"I-I'm sorry. I'll clean it now." I said, hurrying towards the cupboard to take out the mop and bucket.

"You better. I want it clean enough to eat off!" She growled and shoved me roughly out of the way as she left the room.

Ever since I was a child my mother has been forcing me to clean the house. She doesn't do anything herself, but says that I owe her because she took care of me when I was a baby. My father is no better. Really, he's worse. Whenever I don't do what my mother tells me to he beats me. Sometimes, the bruises don't fade for weeks. He never hits my face though, and they make me wear clothes that cover every part of my body so that no one will ever find out.

The only person in my life who's ever cared about me is my older brother, Kenneth. He ran away when he was ten, I was only seven and he promised he would come back for me someday, but he never has. Since then my parents have kept me on a very short leash. There's no way I'll ever be able to escape. Even if I could though, I'm not sure what I'd do. There's nothing out there for me.

I don't have any friends at school. I try to keep myself invisible. I don't think anyone there has ever paid me much attention, and teachers barely ever remember my name. I suppose it's lucky in a way, because no one bullies me when I'm there. It's almost like a sanctuary, almost.

After I'd finished mopping I got down on my knees and scrubbed every inch of the floor. When my mother said she wanted the floor to be clean, she meant it. She could always tell when I hadn't done everything I was supposed to, like some special sixth sense. Maybe I'm just a bad liar.

When I was done scrubbing it was almost 5 o'clock, which meant my father would be home soon expecting dinner. He liked routine and his dinner every night at 6 o'clock and if it wasn't ready when he wanted it, he'd beat me. I got started, which was a shame because I knew I'd probably drop some food on the ground because I'm so clumsy. Thursday nights were spaghetti and bolognaise nights.

By five to 6 I was done cooking everything, with just enough time to serve everything in the dining room ready for my parents. I left a small amount in the pot for myself and then dished the rest out neatly in two bowls which I then placed on the table for them. I always had to set out their cutlery and glasses of sparkling clear spring water, as well as candles and flowers.

I could hear my father coming through the front door while I was still in the dining room and ran back into the kitchen. If he found me in there when he got home he would beat me. I quickly ate my dinner and washed up the pot and my plate before I heard him calling to me.

"Kaya! Come here now!" He yelled. I swallowed hard and walked to the dining room, trying to tidy myself up a little. He hated when I looked messy.

"Where's your mother?" He looked at me kindly, but I knew it was fake.

"I-I don't know." I said without looking him in the eye.

"Well go find her!" He said harshly and slapped me across the face.

I quickly went upstairs without running to find her. I eventually found her locked in my parents bedroom. I knocked quietly and said "Mother. Father wants you in the dining room."

"Well tell him I'll be there later!" She said through the door.

I quickly went back downstairs knowing what my father's reaction to my mother "being there later" would be.

"She said she'd be here later." I said, and stood bracing myself.

"You stupid girl." He grabbed my collar and pulled me closer to him, shaking me, "You tell her to come down NOW!"

I rushed back upstairs, knowing that there was no way my mother would go down.

I knocked lightly again, "He says you have to go down now."

There was no reply from my mother except a harsh laugh. I went downstairs again and I mentally prepared myself for the beating I would get.

"She's not coming." I said to my father, unable to look at him.

He grabbed me roughly from where I was standing and started punching me in the stomach. I could feel tears running silently down my cheeks already and I was getting the wind knocked out of me. I fell to the ground and he turned me over roughly and started to kick me. I tried to roll myself into a ball, to protect myself a little and he saw my tears.

"Are you crying?" He asked angrily. "Weak, you're weak! Clean the table. Your mothers too." He picked me up from the floor and shoved me towards the table before calmly leaving the room and going upstairs.

I just wanted to sit in a ball on the floor and cry until I felt better, but I knew that if I didn't do what he asked me he'd just beat me again, so I dragged myself up onto my feet and carried his dirty dishes and my mothers uneaten food into the kitchen.

That night I crawled into my tiny bedroom and cried myself to sleep - just like every other night. This was an ordinary day in my life and nothing was going to change it.