69 Short Stories

Part 31: Monster in the Photograph (1350 words)

Footsteps came.

Eardrums thudded.

Heart pumped.

Bloodstreams gushed like stormy waves.

Knees ached.

I fell.

I crouched in the dirt, my dress sprawled out around me. Dirt in my nails and hair; my favourite dress and its laces torn.

Help me, I begged. Mother, help me. Father, scowl me as much as you want, but please, come to me. Brothers who never liked me, you can take my candy and rip apart my dolls, but please, come to me now and save my body and soul. Please.

I looked at the sandy dirt inches away and laid my forehead into it. The touch of roots of grass and specks of rocks stained my cheeks like the makeup I used to steal from my sisters.

Please, Mother Earth, help me.

It was a tranquil summer night. Just after sunset, with gentle sea breezes and whatever remains from the heat of the scorching Australian sun.

That was when I felt a sudden longing for home. In the months I have arrived, I've missed my home, I've missed my family and longed for a ship that would take me back to them. As much seasick as you want, longs you take me across the oceans and back home. As much gold and silver as you want, as long as my Father is willing to provide it.

Well, why wouldn't he.

He thought I was going to learn from this place of a so-called new country destined for flourishment and success. He thought I was going to become an experienced, mature lady with scholarly wisdom upon enduring hardships in a foreign land. He thought I would grow capable enough to expand our estate on this land belonging to no-one.

He was wrong.

I've learned nothing but the pain of sunburns, nothing but how to sew clothing for the convict workers. Nothing, but to resent this place of no-return.

Everything I've been taught before this: elegance, grace, ballet, how to drink tea properly. Are useless and mocked here. I'm at the bottom, yes Father, the bottom, of the hierarchy here. A weak, inexperienced, glass doll. They don't care what I have to say, since I have no strength to raise the roof of our flats. Is this what you wanted of me?

I want to go home.

Busy streets of London, carriages and morning teas and poetry and art. That's where I belong.

I kicked some pebbles down the muddy unpaved path excavated by nothing but previous trips. The rocks bounced several times, eventually silencing themselves and resting half-buried in the dirt.

Anger rushed up my back, compressed my shoulders and widened my ribs. Why?! Why am I the same as a bloody rock?! A, bloody, rock!

I fetched one from the ground, grimaced at the dirt that got into my nails, and threw it into the woods. It whistled past a few leaves and was silenced again.

I reached for another one.

I don't care if I'm going to be late for dinner, or preparing dinner, for that matter. The stale food is no good anyway. Even the servants at our mansion ate better than this.

It hit a tree. Another one.

That filthy caretaker, Mrs Norrington. Took our parents' coins and served us stale leftovers.

Broke a branch, I think. Another one.

Older boys worked on construction camps. Older girls worked in factories. Some like it, for they were once homeless and beggars or thieves. But not me. I came from a good family and I will not end up living a wasted, mediocre life.