Hidden(3)

I also keep a journal to escape the craziness. I write about all the things I think and dream about. It’s like my security blanket and it brings me comfort. I mostly write about wanting to be normal. I’m not a normal girl and I’m not sure I’ll ever be. I wonder if I even look normal. My hair is long and stringy and hasn’t been cut in years, at least not since I was twelve when my mother took scissors to it. It’s a dirty color and falls lifeless around me. My face is gaunt and my eyes are dull. My skin is pale. I think I might be too skinny, but my boobs are huge. The clothes I have been given are getting too small. The plain cotton t-shirts are too snug for my maturing body, and the long cotton skirts that have a stretchy waistband are strained across my growing hips, the hem becoming shorter and shorter. I look…what’s the word? Frumpy.

I long to be a normal girl that gets grounded to her room for too much cell phone usage or the out-of-control teenager that is late for curfew because she was sneaking a kiss with her boyfriend. I think about what it would feel like to have a mother that takes me shopping and bakes cupcakes with me or a best friend to talk to about my first boy crush, or how I would feel if a boy asked me to dance at prom. I hope that maybe one day my mother will get healthy and we will leave this place and live a normal life. That maybe one day I will meet a prince, a man that won’t hurt me, a man that will love me unconditionally and accept the broken person I’ve become. I dream of becoming a mom and doing normal things like going grocery shopping and pushing a stroller through a park or a museum.

I’ve been writing these thoughts and dreams in my journal for as long as I can remember, but as each day passes, I lose more and more hope.





CHAPTER 2





Amy



Today, the fat man came and dropped off the boxes. He still waves to me, but he never comes inside the house. I dig through the boxes, hoping for some clothes and maybe a bra, but no, still no bra. God, how I wish I had a bra. A cute one. Maybe in pink. As I dig down further into the box, I find college text books and way at the bottom….a new novel! Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. My heart rate increases. I simply can’t wait to sit beneath the shady branches of the elm and start my new book. I quickly help my mother pack away all the boxes of oatmeal and cans of soup and head for the door.

I bound down the partially hidden trail and follow it to the same spot I’ve been coming to for the last few days. I found it while roaming the one-hundred acre property the day my mother gave me permission to leave the house. I had wandered through the wooded acres collecting pine cones and colorful odd shaped rocks. I skipped the flat ones in the pond. I swung from the tree branches and splashed in the water like a small child. I did things children take for granted that I never got to experience. I stumbled upon the beautiful elm tree when I came to the end of the property that is enclosed by the tall wooden fence. I remembered reading in one of my history books that an American elm tree was named “the Survivor Tree” because it survived the Oklahoma City bombing in 1995. It’s a strong, long-living tree that can withstand intolerable conditions. This elm must stand over eighty feet tall and the rounded crown of the branches hover over me like protective arms. It’s the perfect spot.

As I sit beneath the huge elm with my legs crossed and my book resting in my lap, I start reading my new novel. I bite my nails as my eyes dart back and forth across each page. Beams of sunlight shine through the tree branches, lighting up the pages of my book. There is a gentle breeze flapping the pages every so often. The buzzing of bees and whispers of blowing leaves are the only noises I hear. It’s tranquil.

I am startled by a strange noise. It’s a loud, stomping noise. I fold the page of my book and close it as I stand up and try to track the noise. It’s on the other side of the tall fence. I walk closer to see if I can see in between the slats of wood and that’s when I see the break in the fence that had been hidden by the huge tree trunk. It’s big enough for me to slip through if I wanted. I approach slowly and then stop, standing there in awe.

It’s a horse farm. I’ve never seen a real horse before. It takes my breath away as I stand in front of the broken fence and watch the beautiful creatures gallop around the property kicking up dust behind them. Free is the word that comes to my mind. I close my eyes and tilt my head towards the sky. I feel the sun warm my face as it filters through the trees. The light breeze is blowing my hair all around me. I get lost in my thoughts trying to imagine how it would feel. How would it feel to be free?

When I open my eyes, I gasp. It’s a boy. A man, really. He looks a little older than me. He’s dressed in a well-worn pair of blue jeans and a button down blue shirt rolled up to his elbows. His clothes are covered in dust. He must have been riding one of the horses. His cowboy hat shades his features as he adjusts the saddle on the tawny horse and then he gives the horse a gentle pat. I watch intently as he removes his hat and wipes the sweat off of his face with the back of his arm. His damp, dark hair falls back over his face and into his eyes. He grabs a bottle of water and tips it to his mouth. From where I am standing, I can see his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he chugs the cold water. He lifts his head to the sky and consumes every last drop. He cups his hat in the center with one large hand and sets it back on the top of his head, and then using his finger and thumb, he tilts the top of his hat down over his face, concealing his features once again. I watch him, completely mesmerized. I’ve never been this close to a boy before. He doesn’t look dangerous or scary. He seems to be so gentle with his horse, but I’ve heard my mother’s screams at the hands of the skinny man in the suit. I know what boys are capable of.