Moon Child

Do you ever have an inkling you are living someone else’s life? A sneaking suspicion you are destined to be completely different from who you are? That is precisely how I feel; transposed into another person’s existence. For they are living my life, and I am living theirs. As I remain frozen in one place forever they are out there in the world experiencing what I should. They have stolen away my time on this earth and I want to be free from the binds that hold me here. My body yearns knowing something isn't quite right, and that I don't belong in my own skin.

I sometimes sit and stare in the mirror at my reflection, but all I see is a stranger staring back at me. She is a frightened and bashful young girl marred by a red imperfection given at birth; a cluster of angry flesh gracing her left cheek. As I stare into these stranger's eyes I am reminded by this scarlet imperfection I am an aberration, undesirable to even look at. Glancing further, pale, delicate skin contrasts against the offending redness, attracting attention like a caustic beacon in the night. I feel hideous and withdrawn every time I pass by a reflective surface and catch a glimpse of her. This disfigurement shields from who I believe myself to be. Deep inside, a hope whispers to me. It says I am supposed to make a difference, that I am not the simple human girl I came into this world as; but an extraordinary girl with a big heart and a powerful need to share my soul with others.

Ever since I grew old enough to develop a sense of self-awareness, I recognized the world I exist in is a deception at best. I have been isolated from my truth since birth, and never realized there was another option until my inner voice began to question everything. I must expose the validity of what my entire being detects every day. Regretfully, that is a terrifying assessment due to the nature of my current situation.

Most of my life I have been neglected and berated for my mistakes. My mother seems to carry a severe hatred for me that I cannot seem to fathom, only that it might stem from my father. I still have no indication even who he is and my mother refuses to talk about him. All she will disclose is that he is a coward, and abandoned her when she needed him the most. If she was the same person back then that she is today I do not blame my father for leaving, even the slightest.

I long to be taken from this place, away from Mother and her loveless ways. Some nights I pray for my father to sweep in and rescue me from another day of falling victim to her abuse. To my disappointment, he never shows. If I ever get the chance to elude Mother’s watchful eyes, I will search the world far and wide to find him. Deep down I know he must love me, but he could not love my mother.

I shudder at the thought of spending the rest of my life terrified and trapped under Mother’s thumb. Every day that passes by, something inside of me screams to be released; a powerful force constricted within my body. Mother is determined to break my spirit until only an empty shell remains. She thrives on having someone she can order around and beat down when she deems it necessary. Alas, I will fight for the life I know I am meant for… or die trying.

Ihave been raised within the walls of the Bible. Do not misunderstand me, I believe in both God and the Devil. Heaven and Hell. Brimstone and Fire. I pray almost as much as my mother does, but she has relentlessly beaten me both mentally and physically over the head with her trusty Bible for the last sixteen years. She forces her well-rehearsed verses into my brain to the extent that I have memorized every word.

You see, Mother demands that I be like her in every way. I am to wear lengthy skirts that trail along the floor. To never cut my long, ebony hair. To carry myself with dignity, no matter how broken I feel inside. Thump everyone I meet –when authorized to leave the house– with words from the Holy Book until they beg for mercy. Refuse every man that shows interest until he proves himself worthy and God-like, which could never be an issue due to the fact everyone in this town is overly-cautious of Mother. That, and the fact no man will want me with the horrible mark on my face, or so my mother says. I will probably be forced to live out my days lonely and never knowing love.

If only Mother could love me, or at least show an ounce of care for my sanity and well-being.

I want to make her proud and prove my worth in this awful town. Time and time again, I continue to disappoint her when she expects me to be her shadow and do as she says… no matter what.

Mother now locks me in the attic after dinner every night. Eight years ago, she grew tired of my back-talking and disobeying her commands, which was merely begging her not to make me execute certain humiliating duties. My knees stay bruised from crawling around to wipe up the puddles of water that trail from the bathroom to her bedroom upstairs after one of her long evening baths. I must always run her toothbrush under warm water prior to her using it so her teeth do not ache. The worst, so far, is when we go to church service and I am forced to ask Mr. Baker to move over so Mother can have her special seat while she stands in the back, annoyed and waiting. I do not know why every Sunday we must have the same conversation. I ask him to move, he barks and grumbles at me while stomping across the room, and Mother gets her special seat that Mr. Baker so kindly warms for her.

I never risk saying the words No or do it yourself to her, for fear of what might become of me. Since I turned five years old, she expects nothing but perfect ladylike actions on my behalf. I say yes ma’am when prompted. I sit up straight with my ankles crossed and only speak when spoken to. I never leave the attic without being fully dressed and my hair brushed. I have also taken on the role of maid, gardener, and the most important, Mother’s slave. She shouts for something, and I come running. If I object, then she takes payment from my hide. Not only does my face bear an ugly blemish, but my body is maimed with a map of my punishments. I assume this is normal though.

Every child receives discipline, right?

My pubescent years proved to be the worst. My body changed rapidly as intense hormones ambushed my senses to the point that I thought I might go insane. l learned quickly to endure the transformation quietly after Mother took a switch to my behind for lying in bed too long one morning because my bones ached from growing. She expects me to be up with the sun to start my daily duties, no matter if my body fights me or not.

When visited for the first time by Mother Nature, instead of explaining to me that I was becoming a woman, she claimed it was the Devil trying to drive his filthy ungodliness into my sacred virgin temple. I assumed she had stated these frightening facts to prepare me for my imminent demise. I was convinced death would come and take me away; that I was destined to be the sole property of the Beast himself. I screamed and cried as crimson blood flowed from my ruined rosebud with unyielding agony. Mother offered me no compassion or comfort. She locked me away like a dirty secret hidden from the world. At one point, I begged for the mercy of death, only to suffer yet another day. After the third time my gruesome period found me, I finally grasped the concept that my body would survive with each passing. But a silent rage began to fill me from that point on. No mother should tell her daughter such an atrocious thing, nor lie about something so mundane.

Now I am sixteen and things with Mother are much worse. For every year that slips by, she becomes more enraged with every move I make or word I speak. I try to deflect her hatred by staying out of her way and making sure my chores are completed in a timely manner. She always finds something I missed and spends the next day scolding me for it. When not fulfilling one of her dreadful commands, I occupy most of my time staring out the windows of our Victorian-style home that rests on a knoll next to the town cemetery.

Raven Hollow, population 184, resides on the corner of Wrong Turn in the middle of No Man’s Land. Any person with an ounce of sense knows not to stop for gas here, or even drive through for that matter. Raven Hollow was originally a coal mining village deep in the Appalachian Mountains. Everyone quickly forgot about it when the mines closed and families fled from the constant rock slides and unexplainable coal fires. Only the old folks and incestuous hillbillies stuck around to finish living out their meaningless lives in peace. Mother would never dream of leaving this dreadful place. It is where she was born and raised, so she is set on dying here as well.

I, on the other hand, despise Raven Hollow. Mother will not allow me to attend the single school that teaches the 22 children that live here. One lonesome crumbling shack tucked away at the end of Main Street houses grades one through twelve. I long to be a part of the normal kids, but Mother insists on home-schooling me. She fears I will be influenced by them and their sinful ways. They seem to be fine when I watch from the cathedral windows of our home.

I have learned everything I know through the big dusty books sitting on the shelves in our study. I have read encyclopedias, dictionaries, biographies, and of course, the Bible. The massive amount of information within them is sometimes too much for my young brain to withstand. But I am constantly quizzed on the contents at random times, and if I answer incorrectly, Mother sends me to the attic to write an entire essay in one sitting.

All I want is to go outside and join the others in their shenanigans. Have fun like the kids in town do.

I cannot recall a time when Mother allowed me to leave the confines of our house, except to do yard work and visit church services. Heaven forbid I miss out on another brain bashing from the book of The Almighty. I already know everything in it but she insists I never miss a service. Other than the single-minded holy folks there, I know of no one. I speak to no one.

The children in church are afraid to speak to me, which makes me feel even more like an outcast. I remember when I was twelve, a boy my age sat beside me on the hard-wooden pew during service. Mother caught sight of him and instantly squeezed between us. I am not sure what she whispered to him when separating us, but his eyes grew enormous as tears welled up and he rushed from his seat to the opposite side of the church. After that, she wrapped her hand around my arm and squeezed tight as a promise to speak about this incident on the way home. And she did. So, as I mentioned before, I speak to no one. Only my mother, and my sweet gentle cat, Moses.

Yes, it is from the Bible I complain so much about, but I thought the name was fitting for him.

Moses appeared on a frigid winter’s afternoon in our long winding driveway three years ago. We were running low on the necessary groceries, so Mother left in our antique Lincoln Town Car to fetch some. While pulling from our drive, she swerved the wheel and purposely ran him over, leaving him to die. The shock and horror I experienced from her brutal act was greater than anything I felt before.

How could such an adamant Christian viciously harm one of God’s precious creatures?

I waited until she pulled out of sight and rushed outside to rescue Moses from the frozen ground he laid upon. He was fortunate enough to only endure a broken leg in the midst of my wretched mother’s intent. I scooped him up, wrapping him in my sweater, and took him to the attic where I could nurse his leg. The books I read came in handy when I needed to know what to use and how to use it. Over time his leg healed but still carries a limp that produces a clicking noise when overextended. He was not even full grown when he came to me that day. When I looked into his beautiful eyes, we instantly connected, like two souls colliding with one another. He had wandered the streets alone and without someone to love him for the beginning of his life. I have spent my first sixteen years being despised by the woman that brought me into this world. Neither of us knew what being loved could feel like, until we met.

Moses hides in the grimy old attic during the day, never risking the chance of getting caught by Mother. He senses the wickedness inside of her and knows exactly when to remain unseen. He snoops around the old junk that grows dustier every year, keeping himself entertained until I arrive after dinner. Every night, when Mother locks me away, Moses lies on my chest purring as I stroke his smoky gray fur before drifting off to sleep. Then he sneaks off through the window I always leave cracked for him and prowls through the cemetery to catch his next squeaky meal. I slip him small morsels when able to without Mother noticing, but he seems to take care of his appetite. I have always been a creature of habit, Mother likes it that way, and Moses caught on and embraced my routine quickly. He is a smart cat.

We have grown extremely close and almost anticipate each other’s motions. It feels as if some supernatural bond linked us the day we met. When I look into his eyes, I can see my world inside of them. The emptiness I feel from the missing connection with the people around me is filled by Moses. I still long for human interaction, but hopefully that time will come soon enough. Until then, I am grateful for the small comfort of having my best friend in this world. I would not know what to do without him.

My ancestors passed this old house down over the years. Mother is the only living family member and heir to the remaining fortune. My great, great grandparents were wealthy when they settled in Raven Hollow. Grandfather Timothy built and owned the entire town. He opened the coal mines and paid poor desperate souls a few pennies per day to do back-breaking work. The men made just enough money for the bread to feed their families. Our house was the first built, overlooking the valley below before grandfather Timothy started adding small housing communities for the workers after he struck it rich on the coal. The houses were not much to speak of; only one room with a wood stove to cook on and one bed for the whole family to sleep in.

Grandfather Timothy decided to bring cattle in and made the town’s center farmland. After many years of a thriving coal and farming industry, he was able to construct a small marketplace. Soon there was a bakery, a pharmacy, and a clothing store. So, he managed to erect a small community from absolutely nothing. What started as a hidden valley of trees and creeks, grew into my grandfather’s life’s work. After he and Grandmother Eloise passed away, the family let everything fall apart. The marketplace was sold off and the mines closed. Very little money comes in or goes out of Raven Hollow now. The spirit of the town died along with my Grandfather.

He left behind memoirs of the town and the life he lived. His journals remain in their own special place on a shelf in the study. Mother refuses to let me to touch them, but does read them to me on occasion. It is the only information I have on my family, the single thing left behind that really means something, so I cherish those special moments of learning about them. I have never, nor will I ever see the riches they passed on. They are locked away in some mysterious place inside this behemoth house.

Mother has always been frugal with our family’s money, never wasting a penny on unnecessary items. She makes all our clothing, so she does not have to pay for them in the run-down clothing store that remains inside the marketplace. She refuses to dress like the other residents in Raven Hollow. All our furniture pieces are original from when the house was first built over one hundred years ago. Old heavy oak tables grace each and every room. Crushed red velvet fabric remains on the chairs and sofas. Even an antique silver tea set –I am tasked with polishing on a regular basis– sparkles in the lamplight from the center of our massive dining table.

Portraits of my ancestors still hang from the floral paper-covered walls down the main hallway. When I was younger, I would imagine their eyes following me as I walked by and catch a fright. Great-grandmother Eloise scared me the most. Mother holds an uncanny resemblance to her. In her painted portrait, she is dressed in a black gothic ball gown from the Victorian era. Black hair is twisted tightly into a perfect bun and pinned in place with a large ruby broach. Thick eyebrows arch high over her piercing gaze. Her lips are pursed, and she glares down through dark eyes with an evident arrogance. She sits on our fainting sofa in a flawless posture with hands folded neatly in her lap. A brilliant ruby –the mate to her hairpin– with a thick gold band, can be seen resting on her left ring finger. I am certain those treasures are in the same hidden location as