So this one day its Christmas time, like 2 days before Christmas eve. We are in the holiday home in the Lake District celebrating. I wake up first and make a snack for me and my little sister, my stepdad wakes up angry and my sister refuses to to admit she ate the snack. So it looks like I made two snacks for myself.
Basically, one thing lead to another and I ended up getting pushed hard down the carpeted basement stairs. I end up bruised and friction burned all down my back and legs and I hit my head on the wall at the bottom of the steps. I was fine, but I cried anyway, even though I tried not to.
My mum wakes up to see what's going on and finds me in a heap, alone in the basement, sobbing. Her other daughter is at the top of the stairs in her pyjamas, asking me over and over if I am ok. Her husband is pacing the house and screaming in a rage, hung up on the breakfast pastries and whipped cream I ate this morning. All of the dresses that were picked out for me the next 3 days don't cover the bruises. She goes into a panic, because the Jones's and their two children, who are holidaying next door, will be over in 40 minutes for brunch and I am inconsolable.
But, I get my shit together and stop crying, put on the trousers my mum hands me and behave myself all brunch. I sit quietly with the adults because I'm not allowed to play alone with the kids. The loud and drunk mrs Jones comments that I'm quiet as a mouse today, my eyes dart around the table like a bunny in headlights and quietly assure her that I'm fine. She seems satisfied with my answer. My parents not so much.
We go out for a wander that afternoon and every time I glance into a shop window my mom is harsh and hushed. Yanking my arm hard, squeezing my fingers so I can't let go, snapping "no" into my ear.
I wasn't even asking for things, I was looking with the other kids. In all honesty I was too shook up even hours later to really want something, but the displays in the rich people shops were lit up in fairy lights and staged beautifully, I just wanted to stand with the other kids and see.
"She's alright, she's just looking" said the meek Mr Jones. He was often kind to me and he had noticed I was being singled out all day I think. How every time I went to play with the others I was loomed over by a parent, arms crossed, eyes on me, till I politely excused myself and went where the grown ups were. Mrs Jones was a police officer who wasn't very astute. Mr Jones was a service worker who was.
"Looking leads to wanting and wanting leads to asking, Tim." My stepdad joked, making a show of gently pushing me away from the window his hands pressing right in one of my fresh bruises. Maneuvering me away from the three other children whose faces were shining in the light of the impressive Christmas display.
I had a horrible, sick feeling inside. That my punishment wasn't the hit or the bang on the head or the push down the stairs or the screaming or the raging or anything that happened this morning after i made breakfast. It is this. It is smiling even though I'm being hissed at and pretending I don't mind being pulled away from my friends. It is standing up straight and walking evenly even though my clothes are heavy and the seams are bulky against my tender brusies. It is being treated different and singled out and pushed in the cold when I'm already in so much pain. It's knowing that everyone else knows I'm being punished and nobody beleives me.
