Once I caught it, it made noises at me which hurt my head, so I snapped its legs, completely forgetting that my father told me to, “Wring the neck for silence.” The noises only grew louder after that, so I twisted its head and all went still and quiet.
A few weeks ago, Mother caught me with a cat that I made look red, and attacked me very badly, but it was worth it; the cat looked so pretty in red. It killed a mouse and then it hurt me when I tried to rescue the helpless thing.
I think red is my new favourite colour.
My father throws the rabbit into a pot and leaves it for my mother to deal with. He never helps around the house, all he does is leave for the day and come back late at night but recently it’s been different. He still doesn't talk to me, but he has startedto look at me funny. He and Mother fight a lot, which always ends with one of them hitting me. I want to hit them back, to make them look red but I don’t. I am supposed tolovethem, that's what Mother tells me.
I don't remember my parents ever telling me they love me. Maybe they don't. Maybe that’s why I don't love them.
What even is love anyway?
I just want someone to play with. I don't have friends and I’m not allowed to go to the other cottages as they are too far away. My parents don't play with me and I don’t want to play with them, either. Not yet anyway.
One day I sneak out, walking around until I see a little boy that I recognise. I’ve seen him around, pulling other girls' hair and making them scream. That’s not nice to do to girls like me. He should be punished!
He must be about the same age as me, so I walk up to him and offer a smile; I learned that smiling is a nice thing. If I’m nice, he will follow me. He smiles back, so I think that means we arefriendsnow.
I grab his hand and we wander off together, just us. No one else is around.
“Where are your mother and father?” I ask him. He lifts up his arms in a shrug and grabs my hand again.See? Friends.
We walk and walk, out into the middle of a field, the one with the big scarecrow. I know the other kids are scared of it, but I’m not. Maybe, I can scare this boy for being a bully. As we get closer, this boy stops walking and makes noises at me. I don't like noises.
I tug on his hand to make him come with me, but he won't move, so I make him.
I drag him to the scarecrow like I’ve seen him do to other girls our age.
“Scary, huh?” I ask and he nods his head, trying to pull away from me, but I don't let him. He doesn't talk to me, and instead just mumbles. I don't like it.
“Let’s get closer!” I tug him closer and he mumbles so loud it hurts my head. “Shut up!” I scream at him and he starts to cry. He comes up to me and pulls my hair, which hurts so much my eyes become watery. He must pay for that.
I look around and see yellow stuff on the ground; it’s the same stuff the scarecrow is made of. I grab a handful and put it in his mouth, which makes him cry even louder. I put more in, again, and again, and he can’t get it out. He falls to the floor, but he is stillso loud.
I have to stop the noise.
Loud noises mean pain and I must stop it, silence is good.
I keep adding more in his mouth until he doesn't cry anymore. He's not mumbling. He's not moving. Just like that cat. Just like that rabbit. Red floods out of his mouth and nose.
Yes. I like red.
“I’m going home now,” I say to him as he lays on the floor. A big black bird lands on my friend, cawing once at me. It’s loud, but this time, I like it. I look at its eyes and feel… happy. Relief. A bully won’t be making any more girls cry. Just like our cat can’t hurt any more mice, and the rabbit won't squeal in pain from traps my father forces me to do.
I skip away and make my way home.
As I skip, I hear screams behind me from over by the scarecrow; sounds like a mother. Notmymother, though; her screams at me sound different to these ones—these screams sound like they hurt and I cover my ears.
I race home now, trying to get away from the loud noise. My father stands outside the cottage, with something smelly in his mouth, and he stares at me. He looks me up and down, looks to where the screams are, and then looks back at me beforesmiling. My mother comes outside and when she hears the screams, she looks at me with that look she always gives me and takes off running towards the noise.
My father and I stand there. He still stares at me but he’s not looking at my face, he’s looking at my back—a bit lower than my back, actually. I always try my best to learn what looks mean, but I don't really know what he's looking at, and I don't understand the smile on his face.
He throws the smelly thing in his mouth on the ground, puts a hand on my arm and pulls me into the cottage, taking me to his and Mother’s room.
I’m not supposed to be in here!
I pull back but he holds me tighter, grabbing my dress and pulling it over my head.It's cold. He picks me up and throws me on the bed.
I'm not allowed in here. I can’t be in here! I don’t like this!
