I hate this, loathe it. Being paraded around like a prize pony donned in ribbons. My father insists on this at least once a day, a walk down to the general store. I realized a long time ago this was all for show, he doesn't like spending time with me, he likes showing off his perfect daughter and fine clothes and rub how perfect and happy we are in everyone's faces.

I used to love these walks but it wasn't long before I got too old to skip beside my father I realized their purpose and now I hate them, loathe them. At 14 I'm not oblivious to the sneers anymore, how people laugh at the vapid mayor's daughter but even so, I smile and nod my acknowledgement politely. I wonder sometimes if it's worth it, if the dirty looks hurt more than the broken bones, if a few friends might be worth bruised ribs and a bloody nose, if maybe the next time he gets drunk my injuries won't seem as bad if I've got someone to help me tend them.

"Mr. Mayor, Miss" the red headed boy who stands before us is the sheriff, Fletcher Boggs' son, I think he's about 17. He goes to the creek with the other boys like Mr. Mellark the baker's sons and the barber's son Marvel and is always kind and polite, to my face at least. What would be so terrible about us being friends, what harm could it possibly do? I think I know the answer to that. I had friends once, a long time ago before my mother died, I wasn't always alone but I am now and I'm pretty certain my father is the reason I don't see the Mellark's anymore. I'm sure he sent them away when they came calling, threatened them even.

"Ah Darius, how is your father?" my father's tone never quite loses its edge of superiority, it's not as prominent when he's angry but it oozes from his every pore when he's speaking to anyone in town

"He's well, thank you Mr. Mayor and yourself?"

"I'm well" no thank you, no kindness

"And you Miss?" I startle when I realize the boy is addressing me and look to my father for some clue as to how I should proceed. His face is reddened from exertion, heat and irritation and I worry for the red haired boy but his expression gives away nothing so I turn my attention back to the boy

"I am well, thank you ... Darius" I say carefully, he smiles encouragingly and hesitantly I return it "yourself?" my father exhales through his nose and my spine stiffens, I can't help the shudder but at least I didn't flinch this time

"I'm glad to hear it Miss and have absolutely naught to complain about" he chuckles "though my father would have you believe differently" I smile at his joke but refrain from laughing because my father's cheeks are growing redder by the second. The boy, Darius, looks at my father then at me with an almost sympathetic smile "good day Mr. Mayor, Miss"

"Yes goodbye" my father says coolly

"Goodbye" I whisper to myself.

The bell on the door at the general store chimes above our heads as we enter, the windows have been left open to circulate the stale air and allow any breeze that might grace us in this heat into the room. Mr. Cartright is behind the counter with his back to us, refilling the sweet jars. My mouth waters at the thought. He slipped me a piece of hard boiled candy once, strawberry flavoured, it was the best thing I ever tasted. I don't know what happened but my father was angry, Mr. Cartright got sick and Delly stopped talking to me in school. Not that it mattered, my father pulled me out for home schooling shortly after

"I'll be right with you" he calls

"Take your time" my father gripes, Mr. Cartright nearly falls off his step ladder and I cringe when my father smiles to himself

"Mr. Mayor, you're early" the greying blonde man sputters

"We have to come here at a scheduled time?" my father challenges, Mr. Cartright pales, we are early and I'm certain my father has done this on purpose to make Mr. Cartright uncomfortable

"No" Mr. Cartright offers quickly "of course not, what can I help you with?"

"The usual" my father is still smirking at Mr. Cartright's anxiety "and some chocolate for Madge" both myself and Mr. Cartright look at my father with uncertainty. He doesn't even acknowledge my existence normally, just brings me along because a woman's clothes can portray wealth more obviously than a man's. He's never bought me anything like this before, a genuine treat that didn't benefit him in some way

"Right away" Mr. Cartright busies himself with collecting my father's tobacco and cigars then looks back at us uncomfortably "how much chocolate?"

"2 ounces ought to do it" I stop myself from gasping "bye now" my father calls with false courtesy.

I don't know why I didn't see it, it was naive of me to believe even this small act of anything but cruelty. My father unwraps the chocolate before we've even crossed the street and breaks off a chunk

"Mmmm, that's delicious" he exaggerates "really very good, if you'd behaved yourself you could've had some" he finishes the entire slab of chocolate before we're even back at the house. I've never felt more stupid "I have dinner guests tonight, go and practice the piano" my father demands as he closes the door behind us.

Playing the piano and composing music offers a short escape from this, the nastiness, the insults, the smacks, allows me to be somewhere else for a while, it's not always enough but it's the best I have.

I let my fingers drift over the keys and my eyelids drift shut, the notes encompass me and everything around me falls away. I play from memory, doing what feels right rather than reading from the pages before me and as usual when I let my mind clear like this I feel myself tearing up. There are tears for my mother, my lost friends, my lost life, the life I now live. I only stop playing when my father calls from downstairs that he wants me to start dinner. It's dark out, almost nightfall and as always there's someone watching me through the window. It scared me at first, the dark figure that I wasn't sure was actually there. I only ever catch quick glimpses as I open my eyes and then it's gone, just a figment of my imagination. But it's there, everyday, without fail.

We used to have a maid that would cook our meals. When I was 11 she asked about the bruising around my neck, my father fired her. I don't mind cooking though, now that I know what I'm doing I almost enjoy it. Never completely though, the fear still lingers. The kitchen, I've learnt, is the most dangerous room in the house. Most of the scars I'll never lose are product of this kitchen, mostly burns from being pressed against the stove but also the raised little bumps like brail on my legs from being stabbed in the thigh with forks. Yes, the kitchen is definitely the most dangerous room in the house.

I'm careful as I place my father's plate before him, if he doesn't like what I've cooked there's a chance I may have to duck the plate. That's not the case though and he gestures for me to take a seat

"You were very stupid to talk to that boy today Madge" I put my fork back down in its place "you're not to speak to him again Madge"

"Yes father"

"Good, because if I find out you do you'll both be in big trouble" when I meet my father's gaze he looks smug, that wasn't a threat towards me, he doesn't bother threatening me anymore because I know it's coming whether I do as he says or not. That was a threat towards Darius, the kind red haired boy who did nothing wrong

"Yes father"

"Now go to bed" I stand with my untouched plate then collect his empty one and take them to the kitchen. I manage to scoop a few forkfuls of potato into my mouth before my father strolls into the kitchen behind me. I return to washing his plate and hope he won't notice the missing food. I know when he sees it because he leaves the room and returns with his scotch decanter and a full tumbler which he knocks back in two. I brace myself for what's to come.

Though his frame is short and rounding his fist is solid and heavy. I bite through my tongue when it connects with my cheek. The punch is followed swiftly by a knee to my stomach and then he's gripping me by my hair and dragging me out of the kitchen into the foyer. He shoves me, sputtering towards the stairs and I fall to my hands and knees, the bottom step digging into my shins.

"Go now!" he snarls "now!" I clamber to my feet but lose my balance and have to take the stairs on all fours. When I realize he's behind me I try to move faster but I can feel his proximity and when I reach the top he takes a hold of my hair again and drags me toward my room. He stops before we get there and opens the linen closet. I hear the door slam and the lock click and curl up in a ball on the floor. It wasn't as bad as it could've been I suppose.

When I wake the following morning my spine is aching from being bent in two all night. The blood that poured from my nose and mouth is dry and cloying and my head feels like it might explode. There's a sliver of light creeping under the door but otherwise I'm in complete darkness, I don't know how early it is but I know it's day at least.