Anne

One.

The cold wind rattled the glass window pane. I stood up from my desk and walked to the window, leaning carefully on the sill.

My eyes roamed over the empty grey grounds, examining the dense fog and choppy grass. Another wind shook the window, and a stream of cold air hissed through the gap between the warped wood of the sill, and the thin, unbalanced glass.

“Charlotte!” I heard my name being called from somewhere in the depths of this creepy old manor.

I followed the sound, not quite sure where it would take me. I passed room after room full of creepy old toys and empty, mouldy boxes. I placed each foot carefully on the worn red rug, careful not to step in a patch of mildew.  As I looked around myself, I discovered thousands of faded photographs hanging on the walls.

I examined each one. They all pictured one girl; a pretty, average looking girl who looked as though she was from the late eighteen-hundreds.

She had pale eyes, and always was wearing a dress. There was a striped dress, a plain dress, a ruffled dress and a polka-dotted dress.

She had a sort of creepy stare as she looked right into my eyes. My pace quickened.

“Charlotte!” I heard the sharp cry again and I moved my feet faster, following the voice. Finally, I came into a dusty old kitchen and found my mother with her hands on her hips, looking stern.

“You would think that if I called you, you would at least shout back.”

“I’m sorry.” I whispered. I had figured that the less people heard my voice, the less they would try to talk to me and so I barely ever spoke unless I was in the presence of my parents.

“Have you unpacked all your things?”

I shook my head.

“Speak!” my mother shouted, quite exasperated.

“No,” I whispered.

“Well, you better do it now, then. Your grandmother will be showing up very soon.”

“But mom, it’s creepy here.”

“What?” my mother asked, not hearing my words.

“It’s creepy!” I spoke up, but it was still a whisper.

“I don’t care. Your grandmother was kind enough to let us live here for a while, so you had better be grateful.”

I nodded, looking down.

"Quickly, now. Unpack before your grandmother arrives."

My situation was unpleasant. My parents were going through a war-like divorce. I wanted to live with my father desperately, but the government made the decision that I would be living with my mother, though she didn't yet have a job. My mother begged my Grandmother to let us stay in her mansion until my mother could get a job.

My grandmother accepted, on the condition that my mother would find a job within the month.

So, there I was. A curious, lonely, socially awkward girl living with her less than kind mother, yearning to be thousands of miles away with her father.

I was born in Canada, and that's where I wanted to stay for the rest of my life, but I had just been uprooted to live in England. I hated it here. It was so dull and grey and cloudy that I could barely think.

Unlike most children my age, I despised television, and all I ever wanted to do was read and write. I wore the same dress everyday, as I cleaned it every night, and I had a certain schedule in which to wear my stockings. I wore thick, horn rimmed glasses for no reason at all, as my eyesight was perfect. I carried a notebook with me always, so that I could write down what I wanted to say. My father accepted this as a form of art for me, but my mother would slap me if I wrote in the notebook when speaking to her.

I made sure that everything in my room was always in place, and I kept my books in alphabetical order, starting with Author, then Title, then Publisher. I carried my portable radio with me always to avoid conversations. All I had to do was switch on a song suitable to my feelings at that time, and no one bothered me.

Everyday for lunch. I had the same thing. Vegetable soup in chicken broth with a touch of salt. Every morning, I had a tea, some orange juice and some oatmeal with brown sugar on top.

I was classified as OCD, and my mother did her best to snap me out of it, but if my day didn't go as planned, I would have a "freak-out." I would break things and actually harm myself.

At that moment, as I was walking back to my room, I heard the front door creak open a few hallways down. I followed the nose, and saw my grandmother silhouetted in the door frame.

"What, have you fo'gotten the tea?" Her upper class British accent echoed through the empty halls, and I walked toward her.

"Hallo, chicky. My, my! You've grown quite a lot, haven't you?"

I honestly could not remember the last time I had seen her, so I wasn't sure if her statement was true.

My mother came rushing into the front hall, and she hugged my grandmother.

My grandmother protested, however, "When I asked fo' tea, I wanted tea."