Of a Cloud

Two.

-10 years later- (13 years old)-
"Grace, wake the fuck up!"
I turn over.
"Don't look at me like that you live under my roof you work for it."
"Yes sir."
A farm. I used to dream about what farm life would be like. Now I hate just thinking about it. Waking up at 4 am with the foster family was pure torture. But I never spoke up, never said anything. I just go along with it. The fight has been scared out of me.
I get out of bed and look at the pale pink lacy curtains framing the window separating me from darkness dreaming of a different world, a world where people ate sweet crepes or drank foreign teas and spoke in funny languages.
"Grace I don't got all fuckin day!"
That's Dan my foster father. He is an ox. A man who's mean and wouldn't give tears or compassion a second thought. He was pale and lanky with bright red hair, he would brag about his Irish heritage all day if you let him. His accent once again rang clear through the the old farmhouse.
"Get your arse down here. I don't feed ya to be a daydreaming bimbo lassy now do I?"
I hurriedly speed down the stairs just as he yanks my arm at the bottom.
He lingers his gaze on my face then on my body.
"Don't forget the pigs again."
I smell the putrid alcohol on his breath. Whiskey, a real mans drink is what he calls it. He squeezes my arm then let's it go.
I run out, I don't want a repeat of last time.
I grasp the slop bucket on the porch, then proceed to feed the pigs. Today would be a long day.