CHAPTER 1
Amy
Hidden. For eighteen years I’ve been hidden from the world. I’ve never been to school. I’ve never had a best friend. I’ve never been kissed by a boy. I don’t watch TV. I don’t have a computer or a phone. I’ve never been to a shopping mall, a party or a concert. I live in complete and utter solitude.
Although, I’m not completely alone. I have my mother. As a small child, I have memories of my mother sitting on the floor with me making funny faces and playing hide and seek, and then other memories of her rocking me in her arms while crying and squeezing me so tight it hurt. Sometimes she would lie beside me in bed at night, singing nursery rhymes softly in my ear until I closed my eyes, but then I would hear her cry herself to sleep. I remember her big blue eyes that sparkled and the smell of her long blonde hair when she wrapped me in her arms while reading books to me, but that was so long ago. That mother no longer exists. Over the years, her body has become thin and frail, her hair dull and lifeless, her blue eyes opaque and tired, her mind lost.
The house we live in is one of those manufactured homes you can just drop anywhere. It’s a small box that heats up like an oven in the summer and in the winter it feels like we live in an ice box. It has basic furnishings. Everything is plain, nothing is colorful. With each passing day, it feels like the walls are slowly closing in on me. It’s too small and dark. I’m becoming claustrophobic. Our house is surrounded by a thick forest of trees and a tall wooden fence that lines the perimeter of the one-hundred acre property. We never leave. Ever.
When I was little, I wasn’t even allowed to go outside. I would sit on my knees on the tattered green couch that sat in front of the big window and stare outside for hours. With my small hands folded under my chin along the back of the couch, I would daydream. In the summer, I would watch the birds and the butterflies flutter around the trees and I would imagine myself climbing the trees and swinging from their branches. In the spring, I would watch the rain drops splatter against the window and I would imagine splashing in the puddles and singing as loud as I could to the sky above. In the fall, I would watch the leaves turn beautiful shades of orange and then fall to the ground and I would imagine jumping into a great big pile of them and throwing handfuls of them up in the air. In the winter, I would watch the huge flakes of snow flutter from the sky, dancing in the wind and imagine catching them on my tongue. I rarely felt the warmth of the sun, the wind in my hair, or the rain prickling my skin. I rarely played in the snow or went for walks through the trees. I would beg my mother to take me outside. Sometimes she would promise me that she would after her nap, but that time never came.
When my mother wasn’t asleep, she spent time teaching me to read and write. I was able to read pretty well by the time I turned seven, since that’s what I spent most of my time doing. While my mother slept, I would sit in my room reading and studying my school books all day. My room is not a typical room for a girl. It’s not painted pink or purple and it doesn’t have lacy curtains covering the windows. My room sits in the back of the house and is completely shaded by the trees. No light ever shines through my window. My room is dingy and always dark, with one twin mattress in the middle of the floor and a small lamp that sits next to it. I spent many hours in my room, alone, just reading everything that I could get my hands on. I had to learn how to cook soup on the stove and heat up leftovers in the microwave when I was hungry, because my mother would sleep through most mealtimes. I would eat at the table alone and then fix my mother something when she finally got out of bed. I kept the house clean and made sure to keep up on my schoolwork. Every day was the same.
Around the time I turned eight, I started to notice a change in my mother. I remember the day the fat man brought the boxes. I was so excited. I looked forward to the boxes every month, even though, most of the time it was just food and supplies. Sometimes, there was something extra for me. This time in particular, I found a doll. I remember jumping up and down and squeezing her to my chest. I named her Chloe. She was made of fabric, her face drawn with black stitching and her yellow hair made of yarn. She was used and worn and I had two outfits to dress her in. One was a yellow dress and one was a pink jumper. I would change her clothes every day and I would carry Chloe around with me everywhere I went, and at night I would curl up with her in bed and tell her stories. I would tell her about princesses and handsome princes and magical horses. She was my best friend. I wasn’t as lonely anymore. Then one day, my mother told me Chloe was dirty and that she could no longer stay with us. She pried the doll out of my little arms as I screamed and clutched her with all the strength that I had. I just wasn’t strong enough. I watched in terror as my mother set the doll on fire. She held me while I sobbed as the flames took Chloe from me. That was the day I realized something was wrong with my mother.