When a beautiful but mysterious stranger offers nineteen-year-old Evelyn a fresh start, away from her tough life on the streets, desperation sees any initial doubts overruled by curiosity of the heart. But after arriving at Edenhall Park - an ancien...
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I hated standing in that line.
Wedged in between haggard, twitching women that would scratch your eyes out for the last slice of bread and hollow-faced men reeking of stale booze, that line was a daily reminder of the depths to which I had stooped.
Sometimes I believed I didn't belong there. Other times I wondered if that was true. After months of living the way I had, perhaps I wasn't so different from the rest of them. To the outside world we were all strips cut from the same worthless grey rag, thrown into the back of the cupboard worn, thin, and no longer of any use.
But, deep down, I felt different. I was different. And I really hated that line.
"Now then, dear, what will it be? We've got bean stew and dumplings or minced liver and onion."
The choice made the back of my throat secrete hot, sharp jets, an acid warning of the consequences of eating either. But, for the simple purpose of surviving, I needed to accept one foul option.
As I carried a tray of supposed bean stew through hordes of hungry strangers, hunched over their meals as though flavoured with liquid gold, I focused on the one empty chair in the corner of the church hall. Placing the steaming slop onto the table, thankful the food was at least hot for once, I pulled out the cutlery set I kept stashed in my boot. Partly because the thought of eating from the same utensils as these people made my skin crawl, partly to always have something that could double as a weapon if needed.
Forcing a mouthful of the thick, tasteless concoction down my throat, I let my eyes drift around the vast hall. The dim, orange glow of the strip lights made it impossible to know whether it was day or night outside, highlighting only the muddy colours that closed in from every direction. Brown velvet curtains hung across a small stage, brown plastic tables fought for space on the brown wooden floor, even the Sunday School children's watercolour paintings of rainbows, butterflies and trees appeared to have been painted with their own shit.
An elderly man on the next table began to lick his lips, slowly, as he caught my wandering eye. His beard was littered with glistening remnants of his meal and, as his chapped mouth spread into a hollow smile, the few teeth attached to his gums revealed themselves to be yellow and rotten.
However much my body needed the fuel, I couldn't face another mouthful. Screeching my chair back, I had barely stepped away from the table before a large woman wearing two hats leant over, snatched the remainder of my meal and devoured it alongside her own.
I had to get out.
My duffel bag sat heavy on my back, its collection of sewn-on Girlguiding badges a daily reminder of a previous existence. My once strong limbs were now weakened by hunger, exhaustion, and the constant walking that comes with street life. Taking direct aim towards the exit, I tried to ignore the shaking in my muscles and just get out of there. But my knees finally gave up the fight and the cold, wooden floor stung hard as it made contact with my cheek.
