Short Story / Angel

Angel

They called me the daughter of God. The nuns did. They said that I am blessed, that I will bring miracles because of how I look and the day that I was born. December 25. His day of birth…and mine. I know they are wrong. I’m not the daughter of God, because I do not believe there is a God. How can there be? Why, if I am his true, flesh and blood child, would he leave me to a family like this? Why would he let them hurt me? Why not give me a better life? Or even take me to him…?
My name is Samantha Seraph Hollister. Samantha Angel. That’s what my mother named me. She told me my middle name is another word for angel. That was her way of giving credit to God. I am sixteen years old, now living in an orphanage run by the Holy Church of the Lord. I’ve been in and out of here for the last three years because I have no where else to go. No one to take me in. Not that I want to go with anyone else. There is nobody I trust. Nobody who can keep me safe.
When I was eight I watched my mother commit suicide. She slit her wrist. The last thing she said to me was ‘There is always a way out. No matter how bad it gets, there’s always a way out. You just have to be strong enough.’ I’m not really sure this is what she meant, but this is how she got out. She was tired of my father beating her, torturing her. I knew then that things would get worse. Up until my mother’s death, my father pretty much ignored me and my sister. He would come home from work, slap her around if dinner wasn’t ready or the house wasn’t spotless, but he never checked our room. We hid. The closet was our cave. If he saw us downstairs we’d get called names, were told how we ruined his life, that we were abominations, freaks. He never laid a hand on us until she died.
When she died everything changed. He got worse, meaner. Now we got noticed, even if we hid. He took everything we had and burned them; blankets, clothes, toys. Everything.
‘You have to earn these things. You want toys? Clean the house. Clothes? Make dinner. In my house you don’t anything for free. Nothing!’ he would tell us. And he meant it. If we wanted to sleep in the house, under his roof, we had to earn it. At first it was chores as a means of payment. Cooking, cleaning, laundry, doing yard work. So much work for so little. It would take us three nights of dishes to earn one full meal. We learned to deal with it, ration our food and drink a lot of water. But we were still hungry. Most nights we slept out in the yard, under the stars without blankets. It was hard to do when it got cold, but we wanted food more. We learned to not speak. ‘Children are to be seen, not heard. So shut your mouth!’ To make noise was to be punished. Crying was bad. We didn’t cry. Not where he could see us. We cried every day. In my head, the crying and screaming was so loud I was sure everyone could hear it. I was afraid. Could he hear?
When he lost his job, things got worse. We…he needed money. Money for his drink and drugs. He sold us. He made money by letting his friends do whatever they wanted with us. Most times we were raped, beaten. Some times we did house work for them. But not many times. If his friends weren’t happy with us, he hit us harder. One night Mollie, my sister, my twin was supposed to go with one of his friends. He was mean. He liked to hurt us. He hated women. Children were no better. Mollie didn’t do what he wanted so he brought her back and demanded his money back. Our father was angry. He was going to really hurt my sister.
I traded places with her. I took her punishment. I was tied to the fence in the backyard and whipped. I thought I was going to die. I wanted to, but then I thought of Mollie. Who would be there to protect her? I prayed to God. I prayed like I did every night before, begging for help, for love. For mercy. For him to make it better, to make him go away. I never got an answer. I guess I wasn’t worthy of His love yet. I thought I had done something wrong. Maybe I deserved this life, this punishment. Another lash and I screamed. I couldn’t stop it. I should have. ‘What did I say about screaming? Huh? Children are to be seen, not heard! When will you learn?’
He let me loose from the fence. I didn’t try to run. It wouldn’t have helped. I turned to face him…there was such pain. I didn’t know he was bringing the whip down again. It caught me in the face and neck. Fire raced up to my eyes. I was bleeding from my cheek to my chest. He took me to the hospital that night. It was the first time. It wasn’t the last.
Two weeks later I was in the hospital again. This time I almost lost my left arm and leg. I had lost my life. I heard the doctor say that while they were operating on me that I had died for three minutes. They managed to bring me back. I wished they hadn’t. They didn’t understand. They only brought me back so that I could be hurt again. They brought me back to hell.
My dad had been sleeping and Mollie and I were doing the dishes. She dropped one of the last of the good plates. It shattered on the floor, waking him up. I told Mollie to go outside and act like she was cleaning up the yard. He was furious. I was thrown through the glass door. The cut on my arm ran from the outside of my left hand up to my elbow. My left leg I could see bone from the outside of my hip to the inside of my knee. The pain so was so bad I passed out. I heard my dad tell the nurse that I was running through the house and slipped on the wet tile floor. She believed him. She was afraid of him, I could tell. Why didn’t she call the police? She could have helped us. If she had then maybe Mollie would still be alive and we’d have a better home.
My sister died when I was ten. I couldn’t save her, not this time. Another man brought her home and wanted his money back. I was trying to get to her to trade places but he had already caught on. He had a hold of her arm and wouldn’t let go. When the man left I watched from where I hid on the steps as he beat her to death. She begged him to stop, that she was sorry. That she would do better. He just hit her harder. There on the steps, I prayed to God one last time, the last time I believed in him. I got no response, no help. My sister died. The day was December 25. Our birthday. Her day of life and death. I’ve never celebrated another birthday or Christmas since. I held a hand over my mouth to keep from being noticed. To keep from being heard. I knew I was next. I had to leave.
He called a friend to come over and help him with something then sat down and waited. He kept drinking. He was always drunk. Or drugged. I sat; hidden on the stairs, grief and sorrow so painful I thought my heart would burst. I couldn’t stop the flow of tears, I didn’t try. When his friend came over, he and my dad wrapped up Mollie’s body and left. He was going to dump her body in the swamp so that nobody would find her. The minute I saw his truck leave the drive-way I ran. I took nothing. That would take time I didn’t have. It was raining out. Pouring rain. It was so cold it hurt. I wore a thin tank-top, old bluejeans with holes in the knees and tennis shoes. I had nothing else. There was nothing else. Everything had been taken from me. I ran into the woods as fast as I could. I had heard that the circus was in town but was leaving that night. That was where I was headed. I’d stow-away and let them take me as far as they were going. I was going to be safe. Running through the woods at night while it was raining was scary. It was hard to hear anything over the thunder and my breathing. I didn’t look back. I was afraid of seeing him just over my shoulder. Was that him? There in the distance? No, he and his friend went into the swamp. I’m heading the other way, right? Where am I? I’m lost. I think I’m heading in his direction. Straight back to him. Back to hell.
I looked back, once. Big mistake. I slammed into a tree. Ouch. For a few moments I sat in the wet leaves littered over the ground. I’m soaking wet, cold, shivering so hard my teeth are rattling loose. Is he coming after me? Does he know I’m gone yet? He’s going to be so mad. If he finds me, I’m dead. I know it. I have to get up but my legs refuse to move. I’m tired, hungry. I haven’t eaten in two days and I’m weak. Struggling, I force my body to do what I want. It’s hard to see where I’m going. My eyes are blurred with rain and tears. I’m trying not to cry, to wait until I’m safe to grieve for Mollie, my sister, my twin, my best friend. I already miss her. I hope she’s safe now.
I hear noise just ahead of me. It’s him, by brain told me. I froze, too scared to move. Then I heard laughter. Not the bad kind. The kind that meant I was going to get hurt again. Happy laughter. It must be the circus. I peeked out from behind a large bush. It was. They were moving. There on the road. The circus was one of the caravan types. The old ones. They traveled by wagon and lived together. This was my chance. When the last wagon rode past I ran behind it, hoping nobody would see me until we were far away from here. From my father and his abuse. As quietly as I could I climbed into the back and ducked down. It smelled bad in here. Musty. Like wet dog. Maybe that smell was me? No, I heard animals snuffling around. It was warm and I was crouched in dry hay. I stayed there until I stopped shivering. The motions of the wagon lulling me into sleep. I was safe. I was free. I hope I was.
I was woken by the circus master. It was the next morning and we were far away from home. One of the animal tenders found me. I was afraid they were going to send me back. They asked me my name. I didn’t speak. I just shook my head, hoping, needing them to understand. A man with hair all over his face moved to carry me out of the animal wagon. I had flinched back, bringing my hands up to protect my face. I needn’t have worried. The ballerina saw my face, my scars and asked for me to stay. She was the circus master’s daughter. She was nice. She wanted to protect me. She made the men not come near me, not touch me. She promised I was safe.
I was allowed to stay provided I contributed to the circus. I knew what that meant. I had to work. It wasn’t what I thought. I didn’t get hit, I wasn’t raped. I became a flier. I starred as one of them during their performances. I was small and light and easy to throw so I was given a costume and put to work. For the first time I was happy. I also cared for the animals. I communicated with them better than anyone. Nobody made fun of me or called me names for it. They just accepted it. Besides, this was a circus of freaks. There was the Fat Lady, the WolfMan, the Incredible Bendable Man, the FireEater, the Little People and of course the Mermaid. I was called the Ghost. They named me this for two reasons; one I made no noise, not while walking, working, cleaning, sleeping… nothing. I was silent. I never spoke. Ever. Even when they first found me. I never said a word. Children are to be seen, not heard. I never told anyone my name. Not even the ballerina knew my name. So they called me Ghost. They also said I was a ghost because my hair was white. So were my eyes. Before my mother died I asked her why I looked different from everyone, even my twin. She said it was genetics. That I was defective, I had a flaw, a birth defect that kept my hair and eyes from having any color. It was another reason my father hated me. I looked creepy. My eyes spooked people. At least the circus people didn’t care. They didn’t see me that way. I was one of them. For a while anyways. It wouldn’t last long.
Three years later and the circus was no more. We ran out of money, people weren’t coming to see the freaks anymore. There were better things to do than to go out and pay to make fun of other people. So the circus master divided the last of the money up and paid everyone one last time. I received a hundred dollars. That was incredible. But I would have given it up if it meant I could have lived with him and his daughter instead of going to the orphanage. But because I refused to speak I couldn’t ask them if I could stay with them. I was thirteen and not able to live on my own. I couldn’t get a job to pay for clothes, food, or a place to stay and the ballerina refused to just leave me out on the street. So I was given to the state of North Carolina, far from my home and father in Louisiana. I was placed with the church and had been adopted out several times, but in all cases was sent back like a defective toy.
Most times I’m sent back because I refuse to do anything, say anything. I don’t eat, I hardly sleep and I don’t participate in family activities. I just sit and stare out the window, rocking myself. I don’t trust them. They all say ‘It’s okay, honey. Nobody going to hurt you here. You’re safe.’ I don’t believe them. They try to get me to eat, saying that I don’t have to do anything to get food. It’s here for me. It’s a lie. Right? So I clean, I cook, but I don’t speak. I don’t look them in the eyes. All of them always try to touch me, to comfort me. I try not to let them touch me. They don’t understand. It hurts. When they touch me, I feel pain. Memories of men touching me, hurting, punching, forcing their body into mine. The memories are too much, so much so that I cut myself to keep sane. I hide this act from everyone. Nobody knows of this. They’re just small cuts. High up on the inside of my thighs. Enough to let out a little blood and all the pain the bad memories and dreams bring. The cuts leave scars, but I don’t care. I have so many already what are a few more going to do?
The minister of the church is making me see a therapist. It’s a waste of time. I don’t speak to her either. I just sit there, my head down, hair in front of my face. She tries to engage me. She has a nice voice, but it grates on my ears, like a shrill scream of a banshee. I can’t hear nice things without them turning ugly. Except animals. They’re the only thing I can touch, pet, listen to without pain. They don’t understand either, but they don’t lie to me. They trust me, and I trust them. At the end of my session with the therapist, who, once again has done nothing for me, asks me to return in three days. Yeah, right. If I have to.
I go to a special school. There are only seven kids in my class. Some of them have mental disorders that cause them to disrupt class. They don’t bother me. The teacher is female. She teaches us every subject. Math, History, English, and Science. History is my favorite. I don’t know why. I like to learn about the past. Research stuff. I get straight A’s in that class. Math is my worst followed closely by Science. Well, Chemistry anyways. I like Biology and Earth Science. They’re pretty easy. At least here I’m not forced to speak. I do my work and am left alone. I never have any questions because I listen. That’s the thing about not speaking. If you’re never speaking you can hear everything. And if you’re hearing everything and concentrating on it, then you can understand it. You don’t need to ask questions. You can be seen and not heard.
** **
My day is over. I’m back in my room with my four roommates. They’re not my friends. I don’t have any. I hate being here. In the orphanage. I don’t get hurt by the adults, but I usually get shoved up against the wall or pushed to the floor by the other kids living here. They call me names. Not very nice ones. All of the kids are here for different reasons. I room with Shelly, Harrietta, Amanda, and Gabriele. Shelly is thirteen and has been here since she was born. She was an unplanned pregnancy and her mother left her at a firehouse on her second day of life. I wish my mother had left me. Shelly is a troubled kid. She’s been sent back so many times that the orphanage gave up trying to find her a stable home. Harrietta was left on the side of the highway when she was eight years old and has been here for two years. Her father didn’t want a female child. Says girls are worthless. She’s been adopted out and tonight is her last night here. I hope she going to a good family. Amanda was a runaway. She’s seventeen and is getting out on her own in three months. She’s nice to me. I’ll miss her. Gabriele is eleven and she, along with her two brothers, were taken from her parents by the state for unfit parenting. They should have taken me and Mollie. Maybe then we would have been safe.
We have dinner in the main hall. All of us have dinner at the same time. There aren’t many adults to keep us in line so the older ones are expected to keep control of some of the younger ones. I always get the ten youngest kids to keep my eye on. It’s good though. The little ones don’t really need me to talk to them. They don’t ask me questions and I don’t have to order them around. After dinner I check their homework if they have any then get them set for bed. As I go to enter my room I hear the girls talking about me.
‘Why doesn’t she ever speak?’ That’s Harrietta. She doesn’t sound snotty or anything while asking her question. She’s just curious.
‘I don’t know. It’s really annoying. I think she just trying to get attention.’ Gabriele is a stuck up cow. She hasn’t been here but one month and already she thinks she owns the place.
‘I heard from the nuns that she was an abused kid. Her father was a horrible man.’ Amanda’s nice. I can get along with her. She doesn’t try to get me to talk but will talk to me like we’re really having a conversation. I think she’s like me, she’s seen too much at an early age. She knows there are demons out there.
Wanting them to stop talking about me, I enter the room and lay down on my bunk. They, like I suspected they would, changed topics. Finally, the lights are turned out and everything is dark. I know I’m not going to be sleeping, I usually can’t. I’ll probably crash for two hours, but I usually have nightmares. They’re always the same. My father beating my sister, her screaming, begging, pleading for me to save her. It always ends the same, her hating me for not taking her place. ‘You were supposed to protect me, Angel.’ That’s what she called me. Angel. Or Sam Angel. She never used our last name. ‘You know you were stronger than me. Why didn’t you help me? You let me die. I HATE YOU!’
I jerked upright in my bed, slamming my forehead against the boards of the top bunk. Pain blossomed forth, distorting my vision, making me go cross-eyed for a moment. I think I broke my skull. There are stars darting before my eyes. That dream is the worst. It has to be a dream; something twisted my father created to drive me insane. My sister loved me, I know it. She would never look at me with those dark, soulless eyes, that hatred spewing from her mouth. In the dreams she is how she was. Beautiful, long dark hair, brown eyes, her smile reserved for when we were alone playing, pretending we were somewhere else, something, someone else, with different, happier, better lives. But then she changes. Her sleek hair goes dirty and matted, her eyes go black and her smile turns to a snarl, revealing sharp razor teeth. She is the monster our father was, is. I hate sleeping.
I get up to use the bathroom. There in the mirror staring back at me is someone I don’t know. Or I don’t want to know. I look at myself. My shoulder length white hair. It’s clean and straight but without style. My eyes are the scariest feature. Black pupils surrounded by a whiteness whiter than the rest of the eye. Most people think that I am blind. Hardly. I see more than anyone does. More than anyone would want to see. I run my fingers down the scar on the left side of my face. It runs from just below my eye to my collar bone. Just a bit higher and he would have taken my eye. The whip missed my jugular vein and carotid artery by centimeters. Now I’m left with this. Proof of my ordeal with a deranged psychopath. An abuser. I was strong enough to get out. Not the way my mother did it, but just the same. I got out. As I sit and use the toilet I examine my other battle wounds. The scar on my leg, the one that left me maimed. I had months of physical therapy and for the most part can walk and run just fine, but if I get too tired I limp. The scar is deep and ugly. I’ll never be a model. But I don’t care. I don’t take off my clothes in front of anyone and I refuse to wear a bathing suit. I don’t want the whole world to know my life. Running my right hand fingers over my left arm, I feel the long, jagged scar there. The matching one to my leg. Because of that, I usually wear long sleeve shirts, even when it’s warm out. No need to draw unwanted attention to myself. I don’t want people feeling sorry for me. When they do, they always try to put their hands on me, like they can make it better. Yeah, right.
As I’m washing my hands in the sink I notice, not for the first time, the perfect, cross shaped scar on the inside of my right wrist. I remember when I got it but not how. It was when I went through the glass door and had to have an operation to save my life and limbs. I went in without it and came out with it. The doctors did not touch that arm, just the one that was injured. The nuns know about this, they think it is a miracle, a sign from God claiming me as his. Like his son bore marks from his death, here, too, is mine. They insist I’ll be their new savior.
I turn the water off, dry my hands and look up in the mirror again. This time staring me in the face from just over my right shoulder is the face of His son. That wasn’t there before. Was it? Was I so self absorbed in myself that I missed seeing the reflected image of the crucifix nailed to the wall in our bathroom? I turned around…and saw just a blank white wall. Puzzled, I turned back to the mirror again and again I saw Jesus hanging from the cross. There were blood red tears streaming down his face. His eyes seemed to see me, to stare straight into my soul. I turned to face the wall and again it wasn’t there. Back in the mirror was Him. Reaching my arm back but keeping my eyes and face towards the mirror, I stretched to touch the face of God. In the mirror I watched as my fingers made contact with His face, as I traced the path of the tears. My heart hurt. Tears welled up in my eyes. This man knew pain. He suffered. I felt anger for him, on his behalf. Where was His father when he needed Him? When I needed Him? I snatched my hand back, angry beyond belief. I had begged, pleaded for help and no answer gave He. I was just a little girl, helpless to defend myself. With nobody to care. With a monster for a father and a broken woman for a mother. I lost my sister because of Him. Now He tries to come to me? For what? I don’t need Him now. I’m old enough to take care of myself.
I stomped out of the bathroom, climbed into bed and closed my eyes. It wasn’t real, just my imagination going wild. There was no cross hanging from the bathroom wall. I need sleep; quiet, peaceful, dreamless sleep. I know it’ll never happen, my dreams are to strong to go quietly into the night. To allow me one time of oblivion. Sighing, I draped my right arm over my face. I smelled blood. Was this real? Maybe I’m dreaming again. Statues don’t bleed. In the moonlight streaming through an open window I see blood covering my fingers. Not much, but it is there none the less. His way of trying to get me back to him? Sorry, too little, too late. I wipe my fingers on my sheets, roll over and listen to the silent screams echoing in my head. The ones that never stop.

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Reviews

June 23, 2008

JDAriza

No. of Reviews	Overall Quality	Comment Followup
27	100.0% (4 votes)	13.0%

REVIEW QUALITY: 100.0%(1 vote ) personal info reviewer stats

Age	Gender	Location	Last Login
21	F	Brooklyn, NY	September 08

JDAriza reviewed Version 2 - Read 100% of the Item

I absolutely loved reading this. It brought tears to my eyes, especially when Angel’s sister died. It was all too real, and for some people, this is reality. I felt relief when she ran away from home to join the circus, but felt bad after the circus disbanded. It was really, really lovely. You should definitely get it published. It brought me so much pain, but I liked the ending.

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No. of Reviews	Overall Quality	Comment Followup
67	65.4% (26 votes)	35.2%

Age	Gender	Location	Last Login
29	F	Sebastian, FL	September 07

June 19, 2008

starla77

No. of Reviews	Overall Quality	Comment Followup
91	78.8% (33 votes)	14.0%

personal info reviewer stats

Age	Gender	Location	Last Login
32	F	Italy	August 25

starla77 reviewed Version 2 - Read 6% of the Item

Oh this is a masterpiece! I really cried, because it really reached my soul.
You say it’s long, but with such an emotional impact, reading is never enough for me and really can’t wait to read the following part.
For sure you’ve got to get this published! Your style of writing is so direct, simple, clear but at the same time poetical that I’m glued to the page. You’re never boring, not a single part of it is too long in descpritions, on the contrary you always keep a high level on the reader’s attention through the fast rhythm of narration given by short and well conjured sentences.
It could be a great film. If you go on with the story I can adapt it in a screenplay, or better we could do a two-hand job, what do you think? :)
Congrats, it’s very beautiful and you are an excellent writer!