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After I wash my face and brush my teeth, I return to the bedroom. I look around the light brown room. I have always hated this colour, but Amy refuses to let me paint it any other colour. She says it fits my personality just fine—dull and dingy, just like me. I walk over to the small dresser underneath my window and search for clothes for the day.
I pull out some clothes and set them on the bed to view them together better. “Red crop top with a skull on fire on the front, black ripped leggings paired with my black and white striped knee-high socks and black studded boots,” I mutter.
They say talking to yourself is the first sign you’re going crazy. I shrug. I check myself in the mirror, pushing my long hair behind my ears, and prepare myself for the day. “You got this!”
I make my way downstairs to face them: the people who despise me, the people who loathe me, the people who blame me for everything. My foster family. I don’t even understand why they hate me so much. All I do is breathe, and they get annoyed. My foster brothers torment me daily, and my foster mother and father make me feel like I am the heaviest burden they have ever had to deal with.
Maybe because they were friends with them, they thought they owed my parents a debt. But why take me in if you just planned to treat me like shit for the entire time I lived here?
“Good afternoon, Calliope. You overslept again!” my foster mother, Amy, sneers at me as I reach the bottom of the stairs.
I let out a breath. “I know I’m sorry. I had that bad dream again, which kept me awake most of the night,” I say apologetically. I’m just trying to keep the peace this morning. I wish I could say what is really on my mind: I have to bide my time. Then I can get out of here.
“Yes, we know all about your bad dream. You haven’t shut up about it since it first happened. You’re nineteen now. It’s time to grow up a little bit.” Amy rolls her eyes.
I let out a breath. “Whatever,” I mutter, hoping she hears me but doesn’t simultaneously.
She walks away from me back into the kitchen, and I take that as a sign that she didn’t hear me.
I catch a whiff of turkey and vegetables and scrunch my nose. They are preparing Christmas dinner. I hate her cooking so much. My foster father, Shaun, is sitting in his armchair in front of the TV, drinking a can of lager like he always is.
He sees me standing in the foyer and sneers at me. “Go and help Amy in the kitchen, Calliope. Make yourself useful for once in your life.” He grumbles at me. Why don’t you make yourself valuable, fucking alcoholic?
I nod and walk into the kitchen before saying what is on my mind. I learned early on that there is no point in arguing with any of these people. It never ends well for me. Even if I didn’t do anything, I’d be punished. I’m still suffering from the last lashing I received. My cold, limp body was on the basement floor, shaking and in pain, as Shaun locked the basement door behind him. I shudder at the thought. I do not want to go down there again!
As I approached the kitchen, Amy stopped what she was doing and stared at me.
She lets out a sigh. “There is no point in helping me. I’m almost done anyway.” She looks at me in disgust. “It’s not like you know how to cook anyway.” Neither do you.
I nod. Returning to the living room, I sit on the sofa and pray Shaun doesn’t say another word.
A couple hours later, we are all sitting at the dining room table. Shaun is at the head of the table, as always. Amy is to the right of him, my foster brother Michael is next to her, and my other foster brother Christopher is next to me. My foster parents always place me between them. I’m not entirely sure why, and I never dared to ask.
“Well, dig in then,” Amy announces to the table.
Conversations spark around the table as everyone starts eating their food. As always, I am left to myself.
I’m surrounded by people that treat me like shit if they even bother to speak or look at me at all. I prefer they don’t, as most of the time, if they talk to me, it’s to bully me. I shouldn’t feel sorry for myself or sorry for feeling the way I do, but there’s a reason I loathe them so much. They have been lying to me. I know it, and they know it. The one thing I can’t stand in this world is liars—scum of the earth.
We’re halfway through the main meal. My turkey is dry, chewy, and utterly disgusting. But I don’t dare comment on Amy’s cooking. I got a beating the last time I did, and that was before I suffered from food poisoning that same night.
It serves you right! I remember her saying as I was hunched over the toilet. She even shoved my face into my throw-up just to rub it in a little more, like it was my fault for getting sick from her cooking.
The seat across from me is vacant, as it always is at a six-chair table. From the corner of my eye, I can see a shape… a figure… a shadow. I’m unsure what it is, but it makes me jump.
Jeez, what is that? I turn to face the thing to apologise for jumping, but the seat is still empty. The cutlery is untouched, and the wine glass is empty.
Grabbing my glass with shaking hands, I take a large gulp and place it back down. My leg starts to itch, and I scratch absent-mindedly at my leggings. The itching keeps getting worse and worse, no matter how much I scratch at it. What is going on? I rub even harder, almost forcefully ripping my skin off without even realising it.
My mind feels like it is numb. The noises and chatter around me that once were so loud and annoying become a distant memory. A buzzing in my ears has started, and I can’t stop it. It almost sounds like a wasp or something.
I push back in the chair quickly. A wasp? Why is there a wasp in the dining room? It’s fucking freezing outside; of course, there’s not one in here!
Looking around, I see the hate-filled glares from my foster family, and I take my seat. Do they not see the bug, either?
“Sorry,” I whisper and hang my head. What is happening to me?
They ignore me and go back to their endless chatter and eat their shitty food.
