Charity Award

"Am i your child, or just a charity award?"

I push myself into tight ball in the corner of the white room. White everything. White bedding, white curtains, white clothes, white carpeting. Tears pricked my eyes as I heard heavy footsteps and the lock on my door start to turn.

"Lola. Put this on and meet me for breakfast."

My head snapped down in an instant and I nod once and attempt to sound like I wasn't petrified. The "Yes daddy" came out as a quiet pathetic little whine.

He came up to me and backhanded me. "Don't you dare mumble, little girl." I whimper in pain but I don't hold my cheek. That would just anger him more. I lift my head slowly and said it again, more prominent and louder. I was surprised by how polite I sounded.

"Good girl. Get dressed and meet me down for breakfast. Don't take longer than 20 minutes." I nodded and smiles shyly. I hated it here. But he couldn't know that. I'm Lola, by the way. That man is my father. I'm 15. This is my home. I'm not allowed to leave. My mother died of an embolic stroke when I was a baby.