Monday morning. A dreaded day for those children who go to school.
My mother bangs on the door. My wicked, horrible mother I ma terrified of.
‘Wake up! I got your breakfast here. Not that you deserve any after yesterday.’
Yesterday me and my mother had a row. Nothing new, I guess. It started when she entered my room and produced a tiny lunch for me - a lettuce sandwhich and a tiny glass of orange juice. I had shouted at her then, having a burst of anger. ‘Are you trying to starve me or something??!!! This is what I had yesterday and yesterday’s DINNER wasn’t any better either!’
Then she slapped me, tipped my sandwich in the bin, drank my juice in two gulps, slapped me again for good measure, screamed I was an ugly cow and stormed out the room, hurtling the plate against my door before she left. Then she locked the door behind her and stampeded across the hallway to the living room, where that door slammed shut, too.
Breathing heavily, I sat down on my bed and held my head in my hands. Why did I have to have such tantrums? It hadn’t done any good. All I had achieved was no lunch. And later on, I discovered no dinner either, so I went to bed hungry.
My mother now bursts into my room, unlocking it first, obviously, because it is always locked, with me inside. Though I’ll explain that later.
I leap out of bed and begin getting dressed and she enters.
‘Lazy,’ she snarls at me. She slams the tray down hard onto the desk and studies me. ‘Ugly cow. Lazy, ugly, stupid cow.’
This may seem harsh, but honestly, it’s nothing for my mother.
I guess I’m not the prettiest person ever. I have straggly mousy brown hair down to my shoulders and dark green eyes. I have really pale skin and wear old clothes that are either from charity shops or too small for me. I don’ wear shoes because I stand on carpet all the time. I only have 1 pair of socks too, big fluffy second hand ones for winter nights. Which are very cold beacuse I have no radiator and thin walls seperate me from the outside.
My mother is also ugly. She is really skinny and wears black all the time. She has black bobbed hair and red spots all over her face. Her clothes are always horrible; long black skirts and an old bobbly black jumper. Or her dark green hoodie which is just….ugh.
I gulp,letting the insults pass, and do up my jeans. They are ankle swingers by now.
My mother - let’s call her Witch, and you’ll know why in a bit - notices. ‘Ew. Ugly ankle swingers. Oh well, no one sees you but me.’ Then Witch mutters under her breath ‘Unfortunately.’
Then she claps her hands and says ‘Right, you gotta do two pages on the holiday advert topic in Book 2 KS3. Okay? Then maths……first pages of the knew book, first 2 that is. Then history write out the essay on page 6, and do your excersize dvd today as well. be quick about it.’ Then she leaves, locking the door behind her, leaving me trapped in my room with nothing but a shabby beige carpet, peeling grey wallpaper, my old black iron bed that is falling to bits, likewise is my brown wooden desk and wardrobe. My desk chair is an old dining chair from downstairs and my TV a small fuzzy one on the corner of the desk with only BBC1, ITV and CBBC.
I pull an old lilac purple hoodie on. it’s too tight under the arms. But who cares? Like Witch said, no one will see me but her.
I better explain.
I have been locked in my bedroom for 7 years, 2 months, 2 weeks and 4 days. Witch looked after me for 5 years, teaching me so much that I was a five year old Einstein. Then, on my 6th birthday, my present was being locked up ‘forever’ in my bedroom.
All because I was a ‘mistake.’
I am a mistake because Witch had sex with some old guy she’d only met that night, never before in her life. She was 20 years old and she was at a club. She got really drunk and danced with this guy, who took her to his flat, and into his bedroom. You know what happened next.
So Witch got pregnant with me. She was horrified. She called me Mistakelicia. A made up name. But she called me it because it had the word Mistake in it.
So. I’m a Mistake and I’ve been locked up for 7 years in my old bedroom. And my mother is a witch because she is so mean.
That’s it really. Instead of school I do work from textbooks in old exercise books from the local store.
So. That’s me. I bet you a £10000000 that you have a much better life then me.
Monday morning. A dreaded day for those children who go to school.
Re: The Mistake - Series 1, Book 1.
Worn out, I change out of my trackie bottoms into my jeans and turn off the cd. Witch comes upstairs and into my room. She snatches my lunch plate off the desk and tells me to brush my teeth and go to toilet.
I hurry across the landing to the toilet opposite. ‘hurry up,’ Witch grumbles as I finish brushing my teeth.
‘Just going to wee,’ I squeak. I rinse out my mouth, go to toilet, wash my hands briskly and come out of the bathroom, wiping my damp hands on my top. Witch grabs me hard by the shoulders, squeezing them so it hurts, and steers me into my bedroom. She shoves me in and locks the door again.
The furthest I go every day.
That night I am sitting up in bed watching Crimewatch after dinner ( a slither of chicken, a salad, and some water) when I start to get interested in it; in particular about the story on a young girl who was abused by her mother.
‘Charlotte Green, 12 years old,’ syas the presenter, Julie Holloday, ‘And a very sweet girl, shy and timid, as described by her friends.’ An image on a big screen enlarges; it’s the picture of Charlotte, with a wide grin on her face, looking about 7 or 8. She had big blonde bunches, wore a little pink fairy dress with fairy wings and pink flats, and was small and slight. She had big blue eyes and was running around the garden, getting chased by a big man who was labelled as he father. He was also smiling, pretending to be a monster.
In the background was a large woman sitting on a deckchair, smiling over at her daughter. Julie pointed to her.
‘Mother, Judy Green, was believed to have abused the child the most, hitting and kicking her, even a few punches, and shouting at her, swearing when she was just nine years old. Neighbors say she was a rude woman who never bothered to say hello.’ Julie pointed to the man. 'Father, Terry Green. We don’t have much information about him, but we know he worked in a petrol station and often abused Charlotte verbally.
‘Charlotte rang Childline just a week ago and told her story. police arrived immediatly and she is now in care.’
I switch off the telly, gulping, scribbling down the number of Childline first, which popped up on the screen. I shove it under my pillow and go to sleep, thinking, thinking; should I call the number? After all - locking me up is child abuse, surely???