UntitledThe year was 1890. I was born in a small town about twenty miles south of London. I grew up with three older sisters, although my mother often told me that I had a fourth- who died at the age of five. I was never particularly close to my sisters, even though we shared a room and most of our things. Since I knew them I found that I had trouble getting along, and thus I did not believe that I belonged with them. I began to think that I should have been the fourth sister... dead, gone. Perhaps there was some sort of connection, for she died the day before I was born.
I never did understand my family, for everything seemed to be centered on hurt rather than love. No one bothered to understand anyone better, no one seemed to care. Somehow I felt that my mother had felt the most pain, and that she was the only one who wanted to heal the wounds. But no one gave her the chance to.
No one wanted her to.
On the night before my eldest sister got married, my mother was hit, kicked and f