The sound of peace and quiet was almost deafening, a silence so heavy and comforting that it wrapped around me like a blanket. For the first time in what felt like forever, I was actually having the best sleep of my life—deep, warm, and dreamless. But peace never lasts.
"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"
The sharp cry of the rooster tore through the calm like a knife.
"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"
Again it rang out, louder, clearer, as if mocking me. My eyes flew open. Instantly, my body knew what my mind refused to accept: I had slept far too long. A cold jolt of panic rushed through me.
I scrambled upright, brushing straw and dust from my skin, and staggered to my feet. My little room—if you could even call it that—was nothing more than four crooked walls and a roof that leaked whenever it rained. I pressed my face close to the cracks in the wood, squinting at the blinding light spilling through.
Daylight. Bright, unforgiving daylight.
"Oh no… I'm going to be in trouble," I whispered, my voice trembling.
Without wasting another second, I shoved the warped, tattered door open, its hinges groaning in protest, and darted out. My bare feet slapped against the rough boards of the floor as I rushed into the living room.
The sight that greeted me made my stomach twist.
There was Father Peter, slouched on the couch with his arms crossed, his face set in a sour scowl that spoke louder than any words could. Beside him sat Mother Teresa, her lips pressed into a thin, annoyed line, her eyes sharp and cold. And then there were my siblings—already dressed neatly in their school uniforms—snickering under their breath, their eyes sparkling with amusement at my misfortune.
The room was heavy with judgment, and I stood frozen at the doorway, wishing I could melt into the floor.
"Fa—" I started, my voice trembling as I reached out to call for him.
"You bitch!" Father's roar cut me off, his voice so sharp and venomous it made the walls seem to shiver.
My heart plummeted into my stomach. I knew what was coming next—the storm of words that always followed. Words sharper than any blade, words that could flay the soul bare and leave nothing but raw wounds behind.
"You're really useless, you know that?" he spat, his face dark with rage. "You should've been up two hours ago! The chickens needed feeding, breakfast should've been on the table, the place should've been spotless—and what do I find? You, sprawled out and sleeping like you have no responsibilities!" His nostrils flared with every word, as though anger itself were seeping out in clouds of smoke. "I've been out working all night, breaking my back to provide for this family, and you dare to waste the day away? Your siblings need food in their bellies before the academy, but you—you would rather ruin their future with your laziness!"
Each accusation landed like a blow, knocking the air out of my lungs. I swallowed hard and whispered, desperate for even a shred of mercy, "Father, I'm sorry. I overslept… I've been working so much lately, and I haven't been getting enough rest. Please, I didn't mean—"
Before I could finish, Mother's laughter sliced through my words. Cold. Mocking. Cruel.
"It's your job," she sneered, her lips curling as though the very sight of me disgusted her. "Every chore in this house is your duty, and you should never—ever—be late to do what's expected of you."
My chest tightened. There would be no sympathy. Not from her. Not from either of them.
Father rose to his feet then, towering over me like a storm cloud ready to break. His eyes burned with fury. "It seems as if you're not learning at all." He turned sharply toward my brother. "Jason! Bring me the whip."
Jason, fourteen and cruel in his own way, pushed his chair back with a grin. "As you wish, Father." His voice dripped with satisfaction. As he passed me, he leaned down just enough to whisper a laugh into my ear, enjoying every second of my fear.
My legs gave out beneath me, and I dropped to my knees. "Father, please! Don't whip me. I'm sorry—I'll do everything, I swear. I'll finish all the chores right now, and I'll wake up earlier, every day, I promise. Just please… please don't…"
The memory of the whip flashed in my mind—the sting, the tearing pain, the burning welts across my skin. I had felt it before, far too many times, and still, the fear of it had never dulled. It was my greatest nightmare made real again and again.
Father's eyes narrowed as he looked down at me, not with pity, not with disappointment, but with utter disgust. "Not only are you lazy," he snarled, his voice low and poisonous, "but you're a whore at the young, tender age of twelve. A nasty, filthy bitch."
The words crushed me more than any lash could.
Jason returned, dragging the dreaded whip in his hand as though it were a trophy. He placed it in Father's palm with a twisted sort of pride.
Father tightened his grip around the handle, his gaze never leaving mine. His voice was sharp, cold, final.
"Strip. Now."
I begged. I pleaded. My words spilled out in desperate gasps, but Father's eyes were stone, unyielding. He lifted the whip, his voice like thunder as he began to count down.
Three.
Two.
One.
My shaking hands obeyed before my mind could protest. I slipped out of my clothes, layer by layer, until only my underwear clung to me. Shame burned hotter than the morning sun. My skin prickled under their stares—Father's anger, Mother's scorn, my siblings' amusement.
Protocol. That's what he called it. I sank to my knees, pressing them into the rough floor. I shut my eyes tight, bracing myself, waiting for misery to strike.
Whip!
The first lash cracked through the air and kissed my back with fire.
Whip!
The second came, sharp and merciless, leaving a line of pain that made my body jolt.
Whip! Whip! Whip!
They rained down, each blow biting into me, splitting skin, tearing flesh, searing me with agony. My body convulsed with every strike, trembling like a leaf caught in a storm.
And yet… I endured. My tears spilled freely, blurring my vision, but I didn't scream. I had been through this too many times. Somewhere deep inside, I had built a fragile wall of tolerance, a numbness to survive the torment. But no amount of tolerance could stop the truth I felt with each lash: I was their most hated child. In their eyes, I wasn't even human.
When the whipping finally ceased, the silence was deafening. My body collapsed forward, my arms trembling as I tried to hold myself up. Every inch of my skin burned. I felt weak, fragile, broken—but what hurt more than the welts across my back was the emptiness around me. None of them cared. Not one.
I forced myself to glance up. My siblings were laughing, delight shining in their eyes. Mother smiled faintly, cruel satisfaction written on her face. Father, who had stood there with rage boiling in his features, now looked at me with grim satisfaction, like a craftsman proud of his work.
"Now I hope you learn your lesson, whore," he spat, the word like poison.
He tossed the whip aside and walked away. Mother followed soon after, her heels tapping like a drumbeat of scorn, and my siblings trailed behind, still laughing, still mocking. The house grew quiet.
I lay there for a moment, my cheek pressed against the cold, dusty floor. My lips quivered, and the words escaped me in a trembling whisper:
"I'm not… a whore."
But no one heard. No one cared.
Being accused of something so vile, with no one to defend me, with no one to believe me—that was the cruelest punishment of all.
The truth was bitter, but I carried it alone: my sister, Jasailee, was the real whore. She and Jason, the golden twins, were Mother and Father's favorites, destined—so they said—for bright futures. But that was nothing more than delusion.
It was Jasailee's ex-boyfriend who had started it all. He had whispered lies, foul lies, claiming he had done unspeakable things with me. His friends had backed him, piling rumor upon rumor until the whole town believed it. From then on, the whispers never stopped: I was the easy one, the dirty one, the white.
And Father believed them all. Every lie. Every filthy rumor. His punishments had only grown worse since then, fueled by his disgust. If only he knew. If only he could see Jasailee for what she really was—every man's toy, tossed aside when they'd had their fun. She was the one tainted, not me.
Slowly, groaning in pain, I pushed myself up from the floor. My back screamed with every movement, but I forced myself to stand. I slipped my dress back over my raw skin, wincing as the fabric brushed against the lashes. My body begged me to rest, but I had no choice. There was no escape.
One by one, I took up the chores: feeding the chickens, cleaning the house, preparing dinner, and tending to the mess my siblings left behind. The weight of exhaustion pressed on me, heavier than ever, but I kept moving.
Because in this house, there was no mercy. Only hatred. Mockery. Humiliation. Wickedness.
And still, I stayed. Because I had nowhere else to go.