Good Days Will Come

"Angelina!" her father yells angrily downstairs.

She rushes downstairs to him. "Yes, Father?"

He slaps his daughter across the face, sending her to the floor, her back slamming into the wall on the way down. She stands slowly, using the wall for support. He grabs her arm with a vice grip, so tight she's positive it'll leave a nasty bruise later. He drags her into another room and shoves her roughly toward the floor.

It takes her a moment, but Angelina realizes what she did wrong upon glancing around the laundry room. She didn't wash the clothes her father wore yesterday.

He kicks her leg hard enough to make her gasp in pain, but not hard enough to cause severe damage. "How many goddamn times do I have to tell you to get the laundry done on the weekends?"

She stays silent, knowing if she speaks, her father will only get angrier.

"Get this shit done." He storms out, slamming the door behind him. Angelina stands up shakily, taking down the metal wash bin down from the wall. She pulls the heavy thing outside, then picks up the clothes to be washed and brings them out.

The family has a washer. And a dryer. But poor Angelina is forced by her parents to do it the old-fashioned way. Just to make her life hell.

And dare she argue, it gets worse.

Yet her siblings get royalty treatment. Joe and Elise are treated the way a parent should treat their children. Angelina? She's the firstborn. She was born before her parents were ready to have kids. And for some unknown reason, her parents act like it's her fault and treat her like a slave.

Hours later, the darkness of night beginning to set in, Angelina takes her father's clothing off of the line, folds them neatly, and puts them away where they belong. Not a single wrinkle, hair, or piece of fuzz.

"It's about time." Her father says behind her as she puts the last item of clothing in its place, making her stiffen. She quickly stands to face him, silent. "Go to your room," is all he says to her, his voice dark.

She hurries across the house and up the stairs, to her room.

A half hour passes by. Angelina can hear her family downstairs having dinner. She doesn't dare leave her room. Not until her father allows her to.

Angelina sits silently in her bare room, on the floor, reading. She hears Joe and Elise, who are twins, chattering in the hallway as they pass her room after supper. They sound happy.

And here, sweet Angelina sits in silence, hungry and hurting.

She goes to bed a few hours later, laying on the thin blanket on the side of the room. The closest thing she's ever had to a bed.

By morning, her father still hasn't let her out of her room. And he still doesn't. Not until her siblings have left for school. He makes sure his least favorite child doesn't have time for breakfast and misses the bus.

"You better not be late to school," her father says harshly when he finally allows her to come out.

"Yes, sir," Angelina replies respectfully. She pulls her sweater on so nobody will see the bruises along her arms and shoulders her backpack. She rushes out of the house and starts running down the sidewalk toward school, hoping, praying she isn't late.

Her dress is simple: plain black, short sleeved, modest neckline that stops at her collarbone, knee-length. Beneath it she wears white tights to cover the marks littering her legs. Her shoes are a size and a half too small, the same she's had for three years. They're plain black flats, but, despite their age, they aren't scuffed or scratched. Her hair is up in a neat bun in yet another failed attempt to hide the streak of white through the darkness.