Sentiment of a Witness

𝙱𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝙻𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜

I'd been avoiding my father ever since Christmas Eve, and he knew it, often hunting me down. My mother seemed not to care about any of it – she'd arrived home at noon on Christmas looking dishevelled and giddy but joyful. We'd still gone to the Stolls' for dinner, and honestly, I enjoyed myself – maybe the concept of having friends wouldn't be so bad after all? Well, if I would be allowed to play with them, which my parents had kindly declined all playdate ideas the neighbours had proposed, saying that my studies were much too substantial.

I was seven for crying out loud!

My father had started going out during the daytime to hang with some "mates", leaving me with my mother and Alicea – the only servant we could really afford to keep at the time. He'd always come back after my mother had left, drunk and demanding to see me.

It became a routine; get up, have breakfast, watch my grumpy father leave, read, watch the neighbourhood children play outside, follow and help Alicea, avoid my mother, occasionally speak to her. Then I'd read some more, watch the neighbours again, watch my mother leave, nervously wait for my father to return while eating dinner, hide, get found, beatings, sleep, repeat.

I was only allowed to have two meals a day – breakfast and dinner. Alicea didn't understand why but reluctantly agreed when she was threatened with losing her job. She'd make sure my meals were large and would sometimes smuggle me snacks throughout the day. Well, she'd do that whenever my parents weren't around.

It was rough and unfair, but I thought I deserved it. I was a Witness after all – a nosey, wicked, no-good creature, incapable of doing the right thing. And there was nothing I could do about it; I'd be a Witness for as long as I lived.

Most days, I would wake up hungry and with an aching body. And, more often than not, I was not in my bed, nor my room. I would be wherever I had tried to run from my father or wherever he had dragged me to.

A year later, after the beatings started, I was fed up and sick of having nothing to while my father was out – the most eventful thing that happened in my day was the beatings. It was sick, but I'd started sort of looking forward to it. It was the only time I'd ever have physical proof that my parents existed – by morning, I'd have marks to prove it too. It was also a punishment for everything I'd done wrong as if it was the only way to keep the wickedness in me at bay. Looking back, it was silly – what had I done wrong? Other than been born to such cruel parents?

I had also started counting down the days until I could be sold if my parents were still keen on that idea. I'd sometimes hear them talking about a few people interested in "buying him" or that they'd "just prefer the boy's knack". It wasn't eavesdropping if they were virtually yelling the house down, right?

Some days I'd see being sold as an escape, whilst I'd think about all the stories I'd read where the main character is sold on others. They usually don't find it very nice at all. Perhaps I could escape my problems like those protagonists do? Perhaps I could run away? But this wasn't – isn't – a story; this was real life – My life.

All hopes and dreams I'd previously had for my future had gone and flown out the window. I didn't know what my future had in store for me. Would it just be the same routine over and over again for the rest of my life? When would I be sold? Would I be sold? Do knack extractions hurt?

Running away was still an option... yes, this still wasn't a fairy-tale, but I was in a terrible situation. All I had to do was open the window, jump and find my way out of the forest and into the great big world. But where would I go from there? No one would want a Witness in their home, nevertheless their family – I'd learnt that the hard way. But even if I did jump from my window, would I survive the fall? Only three stories up... If I was to make it, who's to say I would make it through the woods? If I got lost, and if there were animals such as wolves out there, would I be eaten? Was death the right option?

Whatever the right option was, I did not know, and I still don't – would I have gotten away sooner if I had escaped that night? I still don't know. No, the best thing for my younger self to do was to stay and see what my future held for me, no matter how merciless it would be.

Written - 3 + 14 June, 2021

Published - 15 June, 2021