I grasp and turn the cool handle of the metal door push it open—showing the wilted grass of the front yard and the ten-foot-tall metal fence keeping me trapped inside—preparing myself for another day of humiliation and my omniscient father. I descend the faded wooden stairs and up to the gate, where my father reaches into his pocket and grabs a single, silver key and puts it into the lock. The gate then unlocks after the small clink of the turning key. 

I swiftly marched down the pale sidewalk of my neighborhood, feeling the familiar, cold presence of my father directly behind me, carefully studying my every move. It was a gloomy day, as was the prior week. The sky was a darker gray, and the air was hot and humid from the overnight storm. The houses along the side of the road were bland and colorless, much like the rest of the town.

My father and I got to the corner of the street at promptly 7:35 a.m., as we have done every morning to wait for the 7:40 bus that comes to this stop. He and I were the only ones who would get on at this street corner. We stood there in silence until we heard the roaring engine of the town bus coming from the west end of the road. The brakes were screeching as it slowly came to a halt in front of us.

I slowly stepped onto the bus, making sure that my father would be able to keep the one-inch distance between us. I gave a small wave to Mrs. Higgins, the elderly lady in our town, and she returned it with a fearful grin, glancing at my father behind me.

I took my usual spot in the back-right corner and waited for the small grunt of approval from my father to sit down. I heard the low grumble, and I quickly sat as to avoid being publicly scolded once again.

It takes about twenty minutes to reach my private school, Meadow River School for Girls. I’ve attended this school every day for nine years, only missing the days for holiday break. My father enrolled me at the early age of six just after my mother had passed.

            The hundred-year-old brick of the building stands out like a sore thumb against the brand-new vehicles and sports cars that sit in the front parking lot. The school was built with an assortment of brown, grey, and beige brick about two-hundred years ago with Boston ivy covering most of the walls. The few windows that decorate the outer part are the newest edition to the school; they were just replaced last year.

I peer out the window to the left of me to see the towering view of the school. My face turns red from embarrassment as my classmates see me through the bus window, trying their best to hold in their laughter.

            There are eight separate wings in the school for each department: mathematics, science, mechanics, agriculture, culinary, English, business, and foreign language. The other parts consist of a cafeteria large enough to hold three-hundred fifty girls, an auditorium that has a capacity of seven-hundred, a commons area with lockers for the girls that attend here, and a gym as large as three basketball courts. There is also a field hockey/soccer field just outside of the mathematics wing.

            My father refuses to drive me to school, fearing that I may try to escape from his grasp. I remind him that I would never do such a thing, knowing that dire consequences would result from me doing so. But truly, if given the chance, I would run as fast as possible away from this life and start over. I would never look back and forget everything: my name, my town, my school, and even my family.

            The bus slowly comes to a stop directly in front of the doorway. My father stands up and moves to the right, giving me just enough room to walk into the isle. I walk at a slow pace, keeping the one-inch distance between my father and my back. I mutter a thanks to the driver, Mr. Van Hyfty, and descend the stairs onto the white cement, father following close behind. The bus drives away, and the engine sounds slowly fading as I lose sight of it through the trees.

I turn around to look at my father’s emotionless, clean-shaven face, bare of any laugh lines, only lines on his forehead from his furrowed eyebrows. His thinning salt-and-pepper hair was parted down the middle, as it has been since I was a young girl. His emerald-green eyes staring into mine, piercing my soul, reading my every movement carefully. His crooked nose being the only imperfection on his pale face. He was clad in a pale-blue button-up shirt and khaki pants, both without wrinkles.

He gave the slightest nod, only moving his head forward a centimeter, giving me the go-ahead to enter the school. I turned around slowly and started walking with the rush of other girls entering the building. I walked through the towering glass doors and into the commons, the marble flooring already smudged from the shoes of the three-hundred girls that go here.

The school day flies by like a breeze, the same as any other day. Pre-calculus with Mrs. Malcolm went by the fastest, most likely from daydreaming while looking through the window, wondering what it would be like to participate in outdoor activities as everyone else did. I knew that it would never be possible, but just imagining what it would be like put a smile on my face.

The girls whispered and gossiped to each other while looking at me through the corners of their judgmental eyes. I have gotten used to the awkward glances, the laughing, the rumors, and the endless gossip. I have heard all the stories that they have made up and told each other about me being an experiment that needs to be carefully monitored, that my father abuses me and always keeps me under his watch, or, my personal favorite, that I am an insane psychopath that needs to be under twenty-four-hour surveillance.

I ate lunch in the bathroom stall, as I do every day, since I am not acquainted with any of the other girls here. The few people I do know here only acknowledge my existence during class. I eat my lunch carefully while trying to make myself more comfortable on the seat of the toilet. I savor the bland flavor of whatever my dad prepares, knowing that dinner will be even more tasteless.

When finished eating, I would open the stall door only a crack to make sure that there wasn’t another person in sight. I creak open the door just enough to let myself slip though silently. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a mirror above the cracked ceramic sinks.

My skin has gotten paler throughout the years, causing my golden freckles to become more prominent across my nose and forehead. The golden, shoulder length curls that used to be bouncy and shiny has turned dull and lifeless. My once bright, full-of-life blue eyes had lost the shimmer and glow they had when I was younger, now almost becoming gray. My grotesque plaid skirt stops just below my knees, just where my socks end. My white button-up shirt hangs loosely around my torso and arms, a result of my poor nutrient and minimal exercise.

Lunch was my favorite part of the day. It is quiet and peaceful. I didn’t need to talk to anyone and was able to seclude myself from the rest of the school.

School had come to an end, so I quickly walked out the towering glass doors along with the swarm of other girls anxious to go home. Seeing my father already standing in front, parting the sea of students walking to the parking lot, I promptly stand directly in front of him. I look him directly in the eye, and see the slight nod backwards, signaling me to walk to the bus that is parked just behind him.

I walk slowly to the bus, making sure to keep the one-inch distance between my father and me. I ascended the stairs carefully and took my spot in the back-right corner of the bus, waiting for the grunt of approval from my father to sit down. To avoid being publicly scolded, I sat down quickly, being followed by my father.

I look out the window, feeling my cheeks become red from embarrassment as I see my classmates whispering to each other and trying to hold in their laughter as they look at me, opening the doors to their fancy sports cars.

It takes about twenty minutes to reach my home from the school. The bus comes to a screeching halt at the street corner where my father and I boarded this morning. I exit, my father following soon after.

I make sure to keep the one-inch distance between my father and I as we walk swiftly on the pale sidewalk of the neighborhood, making short glances at the bland and colorless houses along the side of the road. We abruptly stop at the dullest house on the block, surrounded by a ten-foot-tall metal fence. My father reaches into his pocket and grabs a single, silver key and puts it into the lock. The gate unlocks after a small clink of the turning key.

To make sure I don’t run away, I briskly walk in first, soon being followed by my father. I walked past the wilted grass of the front yard and up the faded-wooden stairs to the large metal door. I grasp the cool handle and turn it to the right, slowly opening the door and preparing myself for another day of humiliation and my omniscient father.