Didi
The fresh morning breeze hits my cheek as I make my way to the well at the edge of our property.
The soothing sound of wind in the switchgrass that surrounds the house whispers to me—the quiet and silence that comes with living on the edge of society.
Just fields and fields of overgrown weeds and the odd barren row of trees.
No one else lives this far out of town. We are alone out here.
I grip the rope and drop the bucket ten feet into the shallow dug shaft until it reaches the waterline, using all my strength to pull it up again using the crank once the water fills. The pain in my arms temporarily masks the sting in my groin.
By the time the bucket is up, my arm is sore and sweat drips down my back.
I repeat the task three times, so Mama has the water she needs to get through her day.
The well, from what I’ve learned, doesn’t always have a lot of water, and it fluctuates by the day depending on how much rain we get. Today it’s nice and full.
By the time I’m done, I give myself an outdoor bath, stripping down until I’m nearly naked, cleaning my wounds. I hiss as the water hits the open gashes from where metal meets flesh from the chastity belt Mama makes me wear.
I sigh and head into our new one-story dilapidated farmhouse.
Well, it’s new to us.
This house was a happy home once—I can sense the remnants of love beneath the layers of darkness—but that happiness is gone now.
There is something off about it, something sinister.
A stench of death lives in the air. I felt it the moment I walked in and during the night as I slept on the coiled mattress left in the bedroom.
The girl who lived here before me hasn’t left; her dolls are still here, her blankets, her diary… everything.
The house itself doesn’t have electricity or a working pump system, but whoever lived here before left all their furniture, including a mustard-colored couch. It is almost as if time suddenly stopped and the people who once made this their home ceased to exist.
It doesn’t matter, though; I’ve learned not to get too comfortable anywhere. It’s only a matter of time before the landlord will clue in that Mama doesn’t pay rent and her cleavage only gets her so far.
That’s why we moved here. Our old landlord in Mystic was waiting outside our house with his arms crossed and the door boarded up, and Mama tried to bulldoze her way in.
He told us about a house near Kinsmen, a town half a county over, and how no one wants to live here, so the rent would be cheap. Said he could make a call and get us in, then handed her an eviction notice.
Mama and I came here three days ago, and he wasn’t kidding, no one wants to live here because it’s filthy and half broken. The soul of this place seems to have shattered some time ago.
Once inside, I move past the tattered shag carpet and the dented walls with bits of green wallpaper still clinging to them. I slowly make my way, making sure not to trip.
I see the blurred outline of Mama, who is finally awake, and as I move closer to her, I find her leaning against the laminate counter in our small kitchen.
Her breasts are hanging out of a night gown beneath a burgundy housecoat, and the small cross she always wears sits just above her cleavage.
The cross is the only evidence that she is a devout Christian, because her actions certainly don’t show it.
A cigarette is already hanging from her lips.
She was out last night; I can tell from her puffy eyes, smudged eye shadow and lip liner around her puckered lips.
We’ve barely been here three nights, and she’s already found the local bar. Likely from the trucker who drove us here three days ago.
She’s a pretty woman, or at least she used to be before life was unkind to her and she started drinking.
Her hair, once shiny and lush, is stringy.
Her eyebrows are permanently etched together, and she scowls a lot.
Her skin has developed a grayish tinge since her fall from grace seven years ago.
She’s only in her early forties, but life hasn’t been kind to Mama.
She used to be the pastor’s wife in the small town we lived in until he kicked her out of the house and the church. Then the man I thought was my father shunned me, too.
No child of his would have white hair and, depending on my mood, white or red eyes to match—a symbolism of evil. He knew from the moment I was born I wasn’t his.
She blows out a drag. “I don’t understand why you feel the need to go to school. Aren’t you sick of it?”
The stares, the name calling, the bullying.
I frown at her and carry on to the fridge, grabbing a cracker and dipping it into a jar of honey and sucking on it.
I blink at her. “Sick of what?”
“Aren’t you sick of people calling you a freak?”
“Mama, we talked about this yesterday. You know how important this is to me.” Sure, people call me a freak at first, but then they get used to me and realize I’m a quiet girl who stays to herself.
She lets out a huff and stabs the cigarette out on the ashtray. “Doesn’t mean I understand it any. Girls like you shouldn’t go to school. You need to stay hidden. People don’t want to see people like you.”
I dip my cracker one more time before popping the entire thing into my mouth and stare at her.
I want to say all sorts of things to her.
Like how she wouldn’t survive without me, that I’m not a freak or evil, and that inside I’m a perfectly normal young girl with feelings and needs not unlike her own.
That I just want to be accepted for who I am.
But that would just set her off—and I don’t want to set Mama off.
“I’m so close, Mama. Three more months, and I’ll be done with high school.” Despite all the places we’ve lived, I’ve kept my grades up, and I only need a few more credits to graduate.
She scoffs and heads to the fridge and pulls out a Coors Banquet. “I don’t understand you, Diana. Is this house not enough for you?”
I give her a flat stare, and she sighs, drawing her eyes to my mid-section, where the belt is pinching me. “Fine, but when you get home, I need you to go to the market.” She looks me up and down, waiting for my reaction.
“With what money?” I ask her, glancing at the six-pack of beer in the fridge.
She pulls out a dollar bill and waves it at me. “Don’t you mind that. I need eggs, milk, bread, and honey. And don’t ask any more questions on how I get my money, girl.”
Honey. At least there is something we can agree on. Honey naturally suppresses my appetite, and since she’d prefer to spend her money on beer rather than groceries, I eat a lot of honey.
I snag the dollar bill from her hand and head for the door. Her welfare check won’t arrive for a while, so I guess she’s found a way to get by without it.
Mama places her beer down and moves to the couch and settles on her knees. She will spend the rest of the day in prayer. This is what Mama does every day: she smokes, drinks and prays, the holy trinity of Mama’s life. As if prayer will help her any.
I open the door, eager to leave this house. The energy doesn’t seem right here.
“Diana?” She lifts her head slightly before I can slip out.
I run my hand down my white hair, which I braided earlier and move it over my shoulder. My albinism isn’t something I can hide very well. “Yes, Mama?”
“You’re not going to kiss any boys, are you?”
My heart sinks at the question, thinking about what happened the last time she found out a boy tried to kiss me. Someone saw us in the hallway and told the principal. His mother called Mama, telling her to keep me away from him.
The pinching in my groin serves as a stark reminder of what she did to me after.
“No, Mama.” I sigh. “Boys aren’t interested in kissing me.”
She gives the sign of Christ. “Well, maybe God loves me after all. Now leave me be and let me pray for you, Devil’s Child.”
I’ve never understood Mama’s reasoning how white hair and eyes were a mark of the devil. Then again, I’ve also never truly understood my mother’s version of our religion. Having not stepped foot in church since we left, I’ve always had my own relationship with Christ.
I follow the virtues of my father’s church before Mama got kicked out. It brings me hope when, otherwise, I have no good reason to have any.
She calls me the Devil’s Child, because no child of hers would have hair this white with eyebrows to match, and she blames me for everything that went wrong in her marriage.
I glance down at my outfit one last time, which I spent all day yesterday picking out. I chose an ivory dress with frills on the shoulders, the material flowing down to the ground, hiding everything I have underneath.
It’s the prettiest piece of clothing I own, and nothing like any other girls wear. Mama won’t let me dress the way other girls do, and I don’t want to, anyway. I will hide the creaky chastity belt until the day I die, or until I have the courage to take it off myself.
In her deranged mind, this belt will prevent me from ever bearing an equally evil child, not that it matters. She will get her way because I don’t plan on talking to a single person at school, let alone kiss anyone.
I grab my backpack and slip out of the house, blowing out a breath as I step outside readying myself for a long and painful walk to the bus stop.