Ultraviolet

Chapter Twelve: The Perfection

TW: Abuse, ED

I was never the type to embarrass easily. Years of following around a woman who dodged invisible birds and shouted at strangers made it easy for me to brush off small embarrassing moments and move on.

However, soon after moving in with the Wilkes', I found myself humiliated almost every night.

"We don't have a lot of money." Mr Wilkes explained. "And we can't go wasting it on huge feasts every night."

That made sense to me. We can't have big fancy meals all the time. Okay, that's fine with me.

"You don't look very hungry." He noted as he looked down to my chubby belly. "Do you mind skipping dinner?"

At 15, I knew this wasn't okay, but I also knew that I wasn't hungry and that I could deal with skipping a meal tonight. I shrugged in agreement.

"Good girl, go to bed why don't you."

I had thought it was a one off occurrence, but then the next night, Mrs Wilkes started talking.

"We are worried about your health." She had sighed. "You need to start dieting. I think you should skip dinner."

Again, I knew it wasn't right, but the social worker had explained just how difficult finding another foster family would be. I'd have to move to a different area, change schools, and leave behind my entire life. I could deal with eating less.

A few nights passed, each one I was convinced to skip dinner and nodded helplessly before going off to bed. Until one day, Mrs Wilkes "ran out" of money for my lunch and I had skipped breakfast. At dinnertime, the same routine started.

Mr Wilkes argued that money was tight and I was being selfish. Mrs Wilkes argued that I was obese and that I didn't need to eat. Still, I argued, my stomach growling in solidarity.

"You have to let me eat, I'm starving."

Mrs Wilkes grumbled incoherently as she pulled out the scales that had been tucked away beside the fridge. "Get on." She growled.

I turned to Mr Wilkes and Quinton, but neither seemed fazed. I slowly stepped onto the scales and awaiting the result. The green screen blinked my weight, which caused Mrs Wilkes to laugh.

"You can't possibly be hungry." She reasoned as she put the scales back. "Wait for breakfast."

"I am hungry." I cried. "I haven't eaten all day. Please, just a small plate."

"Mom, Dad, she can have some of my dinner." Quinton argued.

"So now you're taking food of our sons plate." Mrs Wilkes hissed. "You greedy little bitch."

"You can't call me that!" I screamed.

That was when Mr Wilkes snapped. In a blink he stood up and smacked me across the face, the impact sending white hot pain through my cheek and black spots blurred my sight for a moment. I stepped back, a whimper pulling at my lips as my tears streamed down my face.

"We took you in, we provide for you. Don't disrespect me or my wife in our house ever again."

I stumbled back into the wall. "I-I'm sorry." I sniffled before running to my room.

I think I was slowly going crazy, or developing Stockholm Syndrome. All I know is that my first year at the Wilkes', I found myself burying my head in the sand anytime they mistreated me.