Chapter 3

I was twelve.

Abigail started at Blackwood Academy, the best middle school in the city. It was an elite private school. One semester's tuition was enough to keep me alive for ten years.

Her uniform was custom-tailored. The hem of her skirt fell exactly an inch above her knees, showing off her smooth, slender legs.

My clothes were altered from her hand-me-downs. Nothing fit properly. The sleeves were too short, and the pant legs too long.

Whenever the neighbors saw me, they'd whisper behind my back.

"Look at the Parkers' oldest girl. She dresses like a beggar."

"Meanwhile, the younger one's decked out in designer clothes."

I didn't care.

What I cared about was that I could finally sneak off to the library.

Every time I came back from buying groceries, I'd stop by the library's back entrance for ten minutes.

I read books, discarded newspapers people had thrown away, and magazines with missing pages.

That's how I learned the ocean was blue, that penguins lived in Antarctica, and that there was something in this world called unconditional love.

Even though I'd never known it myself.

One day, I found a fountain pen in the library. It had a black barrel and a gold nib. The ink flowed effortlessly across the page.

I hid it inside my sock. It was the first thing I'd ever owned that truly belonged to me.

That night, I hid in the basement and wrote on the back of a discarded sheet of paper.

I wrote "Hannah."

Then "Freedom."

Then "I want to live."

The pen glided across the page as I lost myself in the words.

Suddenly, the basement door flew open with a loud bang. Abigail stood in the doorway, her face twisted with fury.

"Where's my fountain pen?!" she screamed.

I flinched. The pen slipped from my hand and hit the floor.

She rushed over, snatched it up, and looked at the ink stains covering the barrel.

"You stole it!"

She grabbed a broom from the corner and started beating me without mercy. The broomstick struck my body, each blow burning with pain.

"I didn't steal it! I found it!" I cried, shielding my head with my arms.

"You found it? What in this house could possibly belong to you?" She hit me even harder. "Someone like you doesn't deserve a pen. You should be writing with sticks!"

The shouting brought my parents downstairs.

Dad stopped in the doorway, watching us with icy indifference. "What's going on?"

"She stole my fountain pen!" Abigail sobbed. "It's my Montblanc! I need it for my exams!"

Dad walked over and drove his foot into my stomach.

I flew backward like a rag doll and slammed into the corner of the wall.

"Couldn't keep your hands to yourself?" he asked.

"I didn't steal it..."

"Still lying?" He bent down, picked up the pen, and examined it.

"It's damaged," he said. Then he grabbed my hand and pinned my fingers against the doorframe. "Hold your hand out."

I knew exactly what he was about to do. I struggled with everything I had, trying to pull away, but he was far too strong.

Crack!

The broomstick came down hard across the back of my hand.

My skin split open. The pain was so overwhelming that I couldn't even scream. Tears blurred my vision.

"Remember this. Every last thing in this house belongs to Abby." Dad's voice came from above me. "Even the air you breathe is something we allow you to have."

That night, the back of my hand swelled until it looked like a dinner roll.

The pain kept me awake. I sat alone in the darkness, staring at the moonlight spilling through the window.

The pale light fell across my hand, illuminating the purplish-red welt.

I wondered if, by cutting this hand off, I wouldn't owe them anymore.

But I didn't have a knife.

All I had was the damaged fountain pen.

I picked it up, held the nib between my lips, and wrote across the back of my hand.

"Hate."

Over and over, I wrote "hate".

The ink seeped into the open wound, stinging with every letter.

I didn't care.

It was the only way I knew how to fight back.