By L. A. Westfall
Key Themes: mystery, murder, child abuse, a novel, fiction
Marion Becker was raped in a park by the man she claims was the devil himself. Shortly after she lost both of her parents. Now alone and pregnant Marion has to decide her fate and the fate of the devilís child inside of her.
After giving birth on her own she names the child Ann, and for the next 10 years Marion keeps her prisoner in the home.
But the devilís child can only be controlled for so long, and before long Ann manages to kill her mother and gain her freedom.
Ann has always known that she was different, special; her father came to her in visions and she began to do his work. Killing became her poison, and she was good at it, but everything was leading up to the day of her mating.
It was then and only then she would know how special she really was.
About the Author
I was born in 1962 in London. My first eleven years were unbearable. I suffered appalling child abuse, mental, physical and sexual from both my parents. At the age of eleven I screamed out at school for help, and I thought my prayers had been answered when social services put a care-order on me to the age of seventeen. How naive I was. Life in care wasnít any better. It was during this time that my mental illness problems began to surface. At seventeen I went to live with foster parents, they are both sadly no longer with us, they taught me, showed me, gave me something I had never had, ďloveĒ.
A few years later a man came into my life, he loved me for who I was, and I fell deeply in love with him, and we were a few years later blessed with two healthy happy children. Times have been hard along the way; my bi-polar manic depression has always been around. I have two rules that I always try to follow, 1st never be angry with anyone, 2nd only take one-day at a time.
Was there ever a time you wished you could be someone else? It would probably be someone rich, or famous, or drop down gorgeous. Me, I wish I could be anyone, anyone other than me. Thatís sad, ainít it?
Iím six years old and I can honestly say I have never had a good day in my life, as I can remember.
I watch the odd person from my window, doing normal things, and I pray to be by their side. I know itís not going to happen, but Iím a kid, and I only think like a kid.
This house is my prison and my mum is the jailer, the judge, jury and the punisher all wrapped up in her evil package.
Night time is my only escape. Once Iím locked in my bedroom; I know I am safe until daylight shows its ugly face.
I can never remember ever being held close to someone, maybe as a baby I was. The feel of someone elseís body touching mine, it is things like this I wish for. I see people walking hand in hand, and tears come to my eyes.
In bed at night I hug myself, I hold my hands gently clapped together, but I feel no relief. As far as I know, I have never stepped outside this damn house in the whole of my miserable life. Maybe as a baby I did, but I very much doubt it. I donít exist. I donít know of a living soul who knows about me.
All the windows in the house have bars fixed to the outside of them. Mum keeps them locked at all times.
I suppose people outside think they are to make the property look nice, if only they knew. If they knew, would they do something about it, and rescue me? I donít know. I donít know about people or the outside world; I only know what I see from between my bars in my bedroom at night.
Mum goes out, of course, it used to be then that I would frantically run from room to room praying that one would be unlocked. Even if I smash a window the bars are too close together for me to even get an arm or a leg out.
The back door like the front is solid, and I mean solid wood with four locks a piece on them.
Our house stands on its own so I canít even bang on adjoining walls. I screamed for about an hour once at the top of my voice, praying a passer by would hear me, but no.
From the safety of my bedroom window it seems the world outside are too focused on themselves to worry about anybody else. I think if I had the courage (by the way I donít) to smash every window in the house, I donít think anybody would come.
This is my shit of a life, and only I will live it.
My heart tells me to be strong and that one day I will be strong enough and old enough to escape this prison of mine, trouble is Iím only six. I still have a lifetime of abuse to live through.
I lay back on my so called bed, and recall, my biggest failure. I found a newspaper and on the front page was the word I think said HELP. So I ripped it out and that night I held it up to my bedroom window hoping someone passing would read it, but we have quite a long front garden so my life line was a fair distance away.
I sat for what must have been half the night holding my four letter plea tight against the glass, and then I must have fell asleep.
I awoke to my door being opened and my sign gone. Nothing was ever said, but since that day there has never been any, reading or writing stuff anywhere in the house. Not that I can read, or write, Iíve never been to school and I know deep inside I never will.
What do I do all day you ask yourself, simple I clean. Everyday all day, I clean each room, from top to bottom as soon as one room is done mum puts her white gloves on and goes over it with a fine toothcomb. If she finds dirt, I get beaten. If not I move on to the next room.
Thatís my life.
Most of the rooms are never used, but still each day I have to clean them. The kitchen is the worst. I have to do the cooker with a tooth brush and all around the tiles; the kitchen is my own personal hell, because she does use it.
Mind you saying that, quite a while ago, I had done the kitchen and mum was going round with her white glove inspecting it, when she found a piece of fluff deep in the drum of the washing machine. Her face went purple with anger; I thought she would kill me. I ran into the front room my heart was pumping its way straight out of my chest. I ran around the chairs trying to get away from her, but of course she caught me in the end, and yes she beat me within an inch of my young life. I stayed in bed for what seemed forever.
During that time I prayed to the person called Lord, to let me die and when I started to get better, I prayed for him to make mum die. Nothing happened!
OTHER WORKS BY THIS AUTHOR
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