Entry - Movellas King and Queen!


1. Responsible.

A care home was the last place I wanted to be. As a thirteen year old boy with younger, much more abused siblings to worry about, I never wanted to be split up from them. The tall building had loomed above me, like a haunted house. I imagined lightning flashing from the deep grey clouds behind, and a witch living in the attic, just waiting to feast on the children sleeping within. 

My sisters were twins, and were both 6. My mother died when giving birth because she was very ill and didn't manage to get to the hospital. At least, that's what they told me. My dad and his girlfriend abused us three horribly; we lived with bruises on our faces and cuts on our knees, but the bruises and cuts weren't from falling over like my friends. We were punched and kicked and slashed at with shards of glass, and shouted and sworn at as they staggered about drunkenly, slurring offences sliding off their tongues easily. We would stay awake at night, treating our wounds with slivers of plasters and drips of rationed disinfectant, biting at our knuckles to keep quiet. My sisters, Florence and Quinn, were brave in the face of abuse, even at the age of four. It was a miracle that they had survived long enough for the services to save us. 

I had a brother, who was 11 and born out of an affair. It had killed my mother on the inside when dad cheated on her, but he forced her to stay, threatening her that he would kill me if she told someone. That scared me, but I was scared for her. My brother was called Harry, and he cried a lot, even when he thought we were all asleep. I comforted him when I could, but being the eldest was a tall responsibility for an abused child. 

When they dragged us to the care home, I was given my own room, which seemed so spacious after sharing with three siblings. I had my own clean bed, and a window that wasn't broken. I had next to no possessions to take with me, just a few clothes and a picture of mother. They had decorated it for me - sky blue walls with a rope of cloud leading up to the sun painted crudely on the wall - and it made the bile rise up in my throat. It was sickeningly childish, and in my mind I was no longer a child, but a man. A broken down man with nothing to live for but a few siblings living in a similar, unfamiliar building on the other side of the city.

I didn't want to get used to living there; the loud noises and early nights were contrasting things, and I had never had the two together before. I would sit in my bed, clutching at my only picture of mother, staring at the floor hoping and willing it to collapse and destroy the place.

I was teased for being skinny and alone by taller, well-fed children who, when they were confronted, hid behind a care worker. They told me I had no one to look after me, but I knew that wasnt true; I had my brother and sisters. They had no one. 

One day they let me visit my sisters, whom were in a foster home. The mother was a tall, purple haired woman with a nose piercing and skinny legs. She seemed friendly enough, and my sisters were happy enough. For that, I was envious. They were allowed to run around, playing and smiling, and I was stuck in a room. The food we ate was vivid and full of flavours, and when I bit into it, it exploded with colour on my tongue. I had never tasted of such things. 

It made my heart drop a thousand feet when I had to leave them again; hugs were little comfort when you were cold and empty inside. 

A few days ago, my brother killed himself. He was found in his room, bloodstained and dirty, a grimace and tears plastered timelessly on his face. My heart was a cavern, a bat fluttering lost inside, looking for a way out of the darkness. But the cave was empty and dim, no sunlight shining through, no light at the end of the tunnel. Never ending and ending everything.

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