The room is cloaked in darkness. She is sitting in the corner propped up against the wall like a discarded ragdoll. The dense cold of the floor is pressing up against her bare leg and she can feel it seeping into her skin, slowly making its way to the bone. Her fingers gently trail across the familiar cement floor. She feels for the groove in the ground that starts in the corner and travels the short distance to the door. A thin sliver of light is coming from under the door. She examines her shredded fingernails as a violent shudder passes through her body and a lone tear dances down her right cheek.

She thought that she had forgotten how to feel.

Her name is Elizabeth. Rather, it was. No one has called her by a name for almost two years. She has been reduced to a “You”, a “Bitch”, a receptacle. Elizabeth, or Liza, had been one of those rare beauties. She was so simple in all of her features but upon closer inspection, every part of her looked like it had been crafted to perfection. Once upon a time, her thick blonde hair had careened down her back like a golden waterfall. Now, it had been bluntly cropped to her shoulders because “it got in the way”. Its previous shine was now replaced by matted dirt and unknown, unthought-of substances.

Once upon a time, her eyes had been a dazzling and shocking green, framed by thick black eyelashes. Now, they were dull spaces that looked into her tired and broken soul. “The Girl” had been forced to take over Liza and as she picked some more at the destroyed skin by her fingernails, she was accosted by a memory of perfectly manicured hands.

*****

Elizabeth can hear the footsteps moving downstairs as she forces herself to wake up. Waking up is her worst part of the day as it pulls her back to reality with a harsh jolt. She allows her eyes to drift close and she is tugged back on the wave of her memories, back to her childhood.

*****

The grass is tickling my toes. The hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention as if they have been summoned. Amber, my best friend is sitting next to me. She always comes on these camping trips with us and by this point, we all but consider her part of the family. Her laugh tinkles like a bell and then she looks at me expectantly.

“Liza, were you even listening?”

“What?” I laugh. She shakes her head and takes hold of my hand and we start walking back to the tents.

“Girls! Where have you been?” my mom calls across the park. We start running to get back to her and I hear my dad and brother laughing in the bushes a little while away. Dad’s laughter is unmistakable. It can only be described as booming and when you hear it, you have no choice but to laugh along with it. Mom comes and scoops me up into her arms and buries her face into the crook of my neck. “I was worried about you Liza,” she whispers, “Eight-year-old girls should not be wondering off alone in the park.”

I am tucked onto mommy’s lap and her long, thick dark hair has fallen into my lap. I am twisting my fingers through the vast mass as I am too tired to braid it like I usually do. A shiver runs down my spine.

“Are you going to be working late again next week?” I hear mommy ask.

“I’m not sure yet, Debs. I told you, things have been very busy at the office. I brought you all on holiday, didn’t I?”

It’s not usual for daddy to get annoyed with mom so I get a bit uncomfortable and squirm on mom’s lap. They have been together since they were in high school and I have never ever heard them fight. I look over to Amber who is curled up in a sleeping bag on the floor. Amber’s parents always fight and I am embarrassed now that my parents don’t seem happy. It looks like Amber has tears in her eyes but she is so strong she never cries. I must be wrong. Sometimes, I wish that I was as strong as Amber.

***

Tell us: Do you think parents understand that their children pick up when they are unhappy?