bound

Chapter 1

  The most miserable part of the cabin was the loneliness that I experienced living with my father. I had never really built proper social skills because he was determined to keep me isolated from the world. He believed vehemently that the world was evil and out to harm me. He was sure that if God and the earth were cruel enough to take his innocent wife away, why would humanity be opposed to taking his only daughter away as well? That left me unable to have any human interaction outside of him. I spent most of my days reading or in my room, though sometimes I was granted supervised outside time. I often had little to no privacy. My dad even went as far as to permanently remove my door from my room.

  My body was aching and blackened from the punishment I had received this morning. I had spots like the cheetah in my book which made me giggle a bit. I stared at the ceiling, thinking again of my actions from this morning that caused me to get such a bad punishment. The aroma of food cooking had traveled down the hall and awoken me from thoughts.

  "Amaya, dinner is ready. Wash your hands and come eat." Dad yelled to me, the sound of plates being brought out resonated around my room. It took me a moment to get up from the too-small palette. I was trying to convince myself that nothing else would happen tonight. I sat up from my bed and walked down the hall to the kitchen. The wood floors always had an eerie chill that made my feet cold. I assumed that the house was absorbing the frigid energy of the people residing in it. I always wondered if homes with love had warmer floors.

  Dad was taking off Mom's old apron, It was a silly way of helping him cope with her passing. He had started wearing it shortly after she had died as a way to make me feel like she was still with us. Now almost eight years later he still wears it, I figured out long ago that the apron wasn't actually for me.

  "Hi, sweetheart. How have you been spending your evening?" Dad inquired as he reached down to fix me a plate of food. We often played this silly game where he would invite me into a conversation, expect me to enjoy the conversation, then get frustrated when I didn't also enjoy the conversation. It was monotonous. If Dad didn't fill the house with a conversation, there would be a void of silence to always fill the house.

  It was also convenient that Dad had also hit me again this morning. He hadn't always been violent but as I had gotten older he had become more upset with me. I had learned quickly after the first punishment what his triggers were. Anything that could cause potential harm was completely off-limits. Today I had learned a new trigger, rocking back in my chair was unacceptable.

  "I stared at the wall again. " I told him with my fork in my hand. I pushed around the food on my plate. Eight years had gone by and he still hadn't figured out how to cook a decent meal or hold a good conversation. I had also learned long ago that trying to cook for myself was off-limits. The last time I touched the stove I had gotten my hand swatted and yelled at. Ovens and knives are not for me to touch because they are too dangerous.

  Dad sighed and I looked up from my plate to make eye contact with him. We just stared. Our matching brown eyes gazed at one another. I looked at his graying hair, his drooping eyes, his down-turned lips. I wondered for how long this hell would last. Would I die before he did in these conditions? Would Heaven accept me with open arms?

  "I'll go pick you up some new books tonight!" He said putting on a smile, "Any specific genre?"

  The question was funny. Most genres were deemed off-limits because of the sacrilegious themes, and I had stopped going to school when I was ten, a couple of months after Mom died. I struggled to read books for children so I was confined to picture books and very small chapter books.

  I told him, "The usual."

  Then we were back to the silence. He would finish his food leaving me at the small wooden table. This time instead of heading to his room he would go get the books he promised. In an attempt to buy his love, though without fail every time, it didn't work. He didn't often leave the house but when he did he would bolt the door leaving me unable to leave. I'd watch his car drive down the long strip of the driveway before disappearing into the trees that hid our small home. I walked to the door, my feet curling at the coolness of the floor.

  I had begun to check if he actually bolted it anymore, hoping that one day he forgot. The last time I had been caught messing with the door without his permission had ended up with me being slapped, and I had learned not to touch the door without being extra sure he was gone. I listened for a second to hear if the car had disappeared before I touched the handle. I pushed the handle down and pulled. I pulled with so much force that when the door swung open unexpectedly I fell back.

  My mouth fell open.

  Then I ran to my room.

  I grabbed everything I could need. I grabbed a book my mother used to read to me, my favorite book, my favorite dress, and a couple of toys. I stuffed them in my pink backpack and then darted to the kitchen. I grabbed water, and a couple of snacks and then I was out the door. I slammed it shut and locked it back so that I would have extra time.

  Then I took off behind the house. In the opposite direction, he would be coming from. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and I knew if I didn't take this chance then odds were I was dying in that house.

This is the first draft, I know the pacing is very fast. I will eventually fix it!