Leni

Age Thirteen

The mound of clay spins on the pottery wheel before me. My hands, the color of mud, rest atop the blurry blob as it turns. I blink hard and pull in a deep breath, willing the emotions that threaten to spill from my eyes to stay away. I won't cry because of him. I'd never give him that satisfaction.

Yet the truth is that my back aches tremendously. Every movement of my arm causes a shooting pain to run down my back, the worst of the agony centered on the area where it hit the corner of his mahogany desk. I've seen my father hit my mother before, but he's never physically hurt me. I knew the second the words left my mouth, the moment his eyes widened with fury, that there would be severe consequences.

"I don't care that some jerk's daughter is going to attend the summer camp. If you can't make friends with that snob on your own, that's your problem. I'm not going to suck up to his daughter, so he'll be your friend. There's nothing you can do to make me."

The entire encounter probably lasted a matter of seconds, but I saw it all in slow motion. His fists clenched at his sides, his knee bent up, rising toward his waist, before his hideous, overpriced alligator—skinned loafer shot toward my chest with a wrath I knew to fear. I didn't feel the initial blow as it lifted my body off of the ground, propelling me through the air. The pain of the impact against his desk blinded me, stealing the air from my lungs.

It wasn't until I hit the ground and could breathe again that I truly felt the pain. I couldn't have contained the agony if I'd wanted to. It broke out of me in sob—filled screams that mimicked a wounded animal, not me.

But it was me.

The cries of pain came from my quivering lips as tears rolled down my cheeks and onto the floor. When I was strong enough to stand, he was no longer in his office with me.

I was alone, but I'm no stranger to solitude. Besides the three months each year I get to spend at my grandmother's, I crave it.

It's always just me and my art, which I suppose is my own personal therapy. Living in this house with my parents is a nightmare. But, through my creative expression, I'm able to find a semblance of peace, enough to get me through the school year until I can see Mimi and my best friend, Liam, again.

They say that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, and I believe it. Growing up in this house with these people has been molding me into the fiercest woman to ever live. I will never be like my parents. I will never settle for less than I deserve. I will give up anything to make it. No cost is too great to stop me from breaking free.

It sucks to wish your childhood away, but that's the hand I've been dealt. Some have better childhoods than me; some have it worse. It is what it is. I can drown in the sorrow, or I can fight.

I've been a fighter since the day I was born.

My parents have tried to shape me into someone I'm not my entire life but with no success. As the years go by, their attempts grow, but so does my resolve. I'm as stubborn and strong—willed as they come, and perhaps that's the reason I'm able to hold on to who I want to be and not change into the daughter they'd prefer.

The daughter they wish they had would've gladly fluttered off to the equestrian camp to schmooze with the spoiled daughter of Dad's business associate. But I'm going to Mimi's. There's not anything they can do to stop me from spending my summers at the farm of the only person who really loves me, where I get to hang out with my only real friend, Liam.

I wince as my hands work the clay. It hurts my bruised muscles but not as much as not doing it would hurt my broken soul. The earthen material spins faster, smoothing out with my touch. Calm takes over as I think of nothing. Peace fills me as my hands create of their own accord.

I smile when Mimi and Liam take hold of my thoughts. In just over two weeks, I'll be there. I love everything about Mimi, but mainly, I'm grateful for her unconditional love. I enjoy every adventure that Liam and I share. Most of all, I'm thankful that he accepts me for me.

In five fleeting years, I can leave this house for good. And I'll never have to come back.

I startle as the door to the spare room that I've turned into my art studio slams open with a loud thud.

"All of it, gone." My father's gruff voice directs two men.

It takes a moment for me to grasp the reality of what's happening. I gasp. "No!" I shout at the strangers as they start tossing my finished canvases into large garbage bags. "Stop!" I scream, jumping up from the stool.

My clay—covered hands pull at a canvas he's attempting to throw out but to no avail. He snatches it from my grasp and continues his destruction.

"What are you doing?" I yell at my father.

He ignores me, his arms crossed over his chest with a smug smile present on his perfectly shaved face.

"Stop this!" I scream as I watch all of my supplies being tossed away.

My father turns to me and very calmly states, "Your actions have consequences, Eleanora. You'd be wise to remember that."

My mind races. "Fine. Just stop them, please," I plead.

He clears his throat. "I've indulged this little hobby of yours for too long as it is. It's time you grow up some and learn some respect."

Tears blur my vision as I watch all my treasures being thrown out, incapable of stopping it. Hate festers beneath my skin, and I swear to myself that I will never speak to this man again once I'm out of this house.

"I hate you," I say under my breath.

He doesn't respond, but I know he heard me.

Five more years.

The men leave, bags in hand. I'm left standing in the one place here that made me happy. Everything I loved about it was just ripped from me.

"You will be attending that camp this summer," he snaps before turning and walking out.

My knees buckle, and I fall onto the floor in a mass of tears. I try to be strong and not let my parents dictate my happiness. I try to be fearless, but in this moment, I feel that I'm losing. A summer filled with no art, no Mimi's, and a stay at Snobs R Us camp … I can't. It will break me.

I lie on the floor of the empty room until I can't cry anymore. Staring at the ceiling, I feel sorry for myself for just a few minutes.

Enough.

I hold on to the table, using it to help me get up. By the time I'm standing, all the self—pity is replaced with determination. My father needs to realize that, when it comes to me, he'll never win.

My mom comes into the vacant room to tell me that it's time for dinner.

"I'm going to Mimi's when school is out in two weeks," I firmly tell her. "You'd better talk to Dad and make that happen because, if you don't, everyone will know the type of person he really is. I've taken pictures of the bruises all over my back, and I will tell everyone what he did, including the authorities. I will send a letter to every person you know, making sure that they all know what being the daughter of Henry and Eleanora Turner is really like. I will not stop until I ruin his reputation. Do you understand?"

My mother's eyes are wide, a bewildered confusion evident on her face. She simply nods and leaves the room.

I haven't taken pictures of my back, but that's not the point. There's nothing that my parents value more than their reputation in their social circle. My mother never stands up to my father, but she'll find a way to protect him from this.

I know he'll make the next five years a living hell for me, but as long as I have my summers with Mimi, I can get through anything.