All Her Broken Pieces

Prologue

"Sang! Get your worthless ass down here!" I wince at my step mother's harsh shout from downstairs. Not knowing what I'll face when I enter the living room where she sits I mentally brace myself, taking a fortifying breath to settle my nerves before entering the room.

"Yes, Mistress?" I ask, using the title she requires of me whenever speaking to her. She looks me up and down, her upper lip curling back and I fight back the full body shudder I feel coming at the revulsion and hate I see in her milky blue eyes, forever glassy due to the sheer amount of medication she consumes.

With a dismissive huff she returns her gaze to the television where she and my sister Marie, who has yet to acknowledge my presence, are watching yet another season of The Bachelor, and although I no longer hold her complete attention, I keep alert, knowing from experience that she is still very aware of me.

"Your father has recently taken a job in Charleston and we will be moving to South Carolina this Friday, the house has already been sold." She says this so nonchalantly, as if discussing the current weather outside and not the uprooting of our entire life here in Illinois in six days. I struggle to keep my expression blank, she hates it when I show emotions or react in any way unless it is to show pain from punishments, that she revels in. Her explanation for this is simple: I have the eyes and smile of a whore, therefore I do not get to show any emotion but the pain I deserve for my whorish behavior. I've never truly believed her, as I know the definition of a whore and I do not comply with it.

Satisfied that I have not shown any of the shock or sadness I feel at the prospect of leaving the only home I've ever known, she continues to reveal the true reason for calling me down from my prison-sorry I mean my room.

"You will pack the house in its entirety, and clean it from top to bottom by Thursday so your father has nothing to worry about, and my daughter and I can be relieved of the stresses of moving." I bow my head to hide the despair on my face, but I can't help it this time. She expects me to pack nearly 18 years of belongings from our four bedroom two bath house in a matter of days. By myself.

Ignoring the burning sensation behind my closed eyelids I force myself to nod. "Yes, Mistress."

When I don't immediately move her face falls into a mean scowl. "Well, what are you waiting for? This house isn't going to pack and clean itself. Get out of my sight you ungrateful slut!"

With that, I turn tail and rush to the garage where I find piles of flattened packing boxes that cement the reality of our impending move. Grabbing as many as I can I head back upstairs and begin the long moving process. Maybe I can make it fun, like a massive game of Tetris, I shake my head at the thought, there is no making this fun, but at least I should be free of punishments, can't exactly pack and clean if I can't move now can I?

***

It turns out that you can clean and pack when you can't move, even if your ribs are cracked, your body black and blue and your throat burns from swallowing lemon juice and vinegar.

I shudder at the memory of my latest punishment.

I'm packing last room in the house, folding Marie's clothing from her overflowing closet and I find myself comparing my room to hers once more.

Where her walls are covered in fresh dark purple paint and there are band posters hanging everywhere, mine are decked out in nothing but peeling yellow paint reminiscent of decaying mustard and nothing else. My closets are nearly bare, all of my clothing and worldly possessions able to fill two and a half drawers of my rickety old dresser. My bed boasts a threadbare, practically ancient twin mattress on a cheap metal frame, topped with a scratchy blue set of sheets and flat pillows, a stark contrast to Marie's rich dark cherry sleigh bed set with a queen mattress and a mountain of colorful blankets and pillows all purchased within the last few years or so.