Seventy-seven per cent of all accidents happen at home – and since I was conceived and born in this very house, I guess that includes me. Sure, my parents might have wanted a baby, but they certainly didn't want what they got. When my dad put his hand against her swollen belly and stroked what he thought was my head, that was the first time he lifted his hand to my backside, even if more often than not it was in anger. And when I think as I do of how I spluttered, furious, into this world and she cried out with the pain I had caused her, I always wondered if some part of her knew then how this would become our dance.
Even now I still get hot with anger when I think of them whispering behind closed doors. I actually sweat. Well, Mum, if you wanted me to laugh you could have tried being funny. Those vile little dresses and my hair tied up in bunches, it was sickening. One of those other girls at school, that's who they wanted. A good girl. Daddy's little princess.
I suppose they didn't mean any harm, and I suppose I didn't either but it's too late for that now. I wonder where I'll go when I leave this place? Someone is bound to find them soon enough and then they'll wonder where I am. As I said, Seventy-seven per cent of accidents happen at home. You just can't deny statistics.
8 November 2013