Chapter Four

Arrya

*A week earlier*

I crawled into the attic, my body battered and bruised from taking another beating from my stepfather. This was the third time this week he had come home and decided to make me his punching bag over a minor disagreement.

I mean, the man always easily found a way to make sure I learnt my lessons.

The attic was dark and smelt stale, probably from the gazillions of closed up books that were up here. My mum had loved to read.

She had chosen reading over me, and that landed her six feets in a shallow grave.

Well, it didn't do me any good either.

I used my hands to feel over the mounting boxes, because turning on a candle would add more scars to the canvas that was my body and I was trying to stay alive at the moment. My stepfather didn't like wastage. 

Trust me, I had considered running away. I'd even reached the stage of execution but the world out there was way worse.

Littlecan was just a city shy from London in southeastern England. We were a big name on the map because of how our city was governed. 

Littlecan City only favored the rich, those with degrees, and those willing to do just about anything, in other words get affiliated with the mafia that ran this city. Everyone with a brain knew that here.

Strange men that no one knew their origin but at the mention of their names, eyes widened in fear and everyone behaved. They were a higher power than the government. Heck, rumor had it that they had placed the government there. 

Yeah, the government didn't do squat shit but look away from the cries of the people and leave those heathens to have the fun of their lives. 

Here, we paid tax to the heathens, we worshiped the very ground they walked on and tried not to have the spotlight on us as nobodies. That could get you killed over here in Littlecan.

I hissed in a breath, clutching my side as it connected with the sharp edge of my drawer. With two more steps, I found my bed and sank into its softness, my body crying out from the brutal pain.

Once I had seen the struggles of the outside world, I had run back to my stepfather in a fortnight. 

Of course that warranted another beating but I knew my next meal was secured.

I was living a pitiful life. I doubted it could get any worse. 

************

"Thomas Yhoul has asked to marry you", my stepfather said, hanging his coat on the outdated coat rack after quietly closing the door. My stepfather never did anything quietly.

I figured it was no point leaving my mouth hanging open trying to gauge his mood, so I swallowed and responded, "And?"

He turned to look at me like I was stupid, his brown hair all flayed and shaggy from running his hands through it.

"Well, you're almost 18. So what do ya think was my fuckin' response to him ey?"

First I was shocked that he remembered my birthday was close, but my shock slowly turned to anger at the fact that he had just thrown me off to the first man in sight.

"I'm not marrying Thomas. He's a good for nothing wifebeater", I responded, my voice a pitch higher than normal.

My stepfather guffawed almost immediately, and I froze, my fingers tightening on the plate I was setting out for him on the dining table slash kitchen.

Our house was a little two bedroom bungalow with an attic, the living room and the dining room and kitchen were just one big room with mental divisions, meaning you knew this was this just by common sense. The architect had probably been as drunk as my stepfather was currently when he made the floor plan.

Shit, I had raised my voice at him and he was drunk. My body was still in recovery mode to take another beating.

"Every bloke from here to London is a fuckin wifebeater", my stepfather lets out in his accent, finally regaining his breath from laughing too loud. 

"He killed his wife", I muttered underneath my breath, hoping his approaching footsteps covered up what I had said.

"You killed your mother. Two murderers finally finding love", He laughed and drew out his chair on the dining table and sat.

The cutleries in my hand clattered to the floor at his words, tears slipping down from my eyes as I hurriedly bent to pick them and set them by his side.

"I'm not marrying him", I countered harshly and fled from the table, my stepfather's sputter of angry words following me all the way up to the attic. 

He could throw me out for all I care. I'm not marrying into that blood sucking family. Everyone on Miller Street knew of the Yhoul's. Three sons with the most narcissistical attitude and their father. If their ominous house by the end of the street didn't give away the cruelty and animosity, the rumors that they had killed their mother and then Thomas had gone on to kill his first wife was something to run at the sound of hearing. Plus, it was also rumored that any girl who married into the family mysteriously disappeared. The Yhoul's of course had claimed the girls had taken a little trip to an undisclosed place for their safety. 

Bloody liars. 

But no one dared question them on our street because they were deemed with the title of tax collectors. But on the bottom of the list. The Yhoul's were the ones that did the dirty work of going about and collecting money but they still had this sense of pride that they were higher up on the food chain. Delusional pieces of crap.

Tax collectors were like the third in command in the city of Littlecan. Meaning they had close connections with the men that ruled our city. So one gossip, one whispered word, and you're gone. Taken from your home to the pit and only the lord knew what went on down there.

I was not going to marry into that egotistical family. I have to run away. But to where? The streets of Littlecan was as tough as nails. No one gave you anything without a price attached to it. And the price was always your life or your legs spread high up in the air. I held in the bile that rose to my throat at that thought.

Of course, Littlecan wasn't as dark and gloomy all round as I was painting. The rich enjoyed here and got to see all the attractions our city hosted. But for people like me, I was stuck to the slums. There was no amount of Cinderella magic that was going to get me out of here.

London! An idea formed in my head. I could go to London and start a new life there. If I could just work, maybe run errands for Mrs. Witleberg who lived next to us, I could save enough to board the late night train and never get to marry Thomas Yhoul. Because if there's one thing I know about my stepfather was he never changed his mind once it's made up and he had seemed pretty set on me marrying Thomas. 

I would never, not if I wasn't drugged and dragged by my hair to the altar. With my eyes already being accustomed to the dark, I found the lighter I had stored on the little wooden dresser up in the attic and lit a candle. There was no electricity up in the attic courtesy of my stepfather who had said I didn't need light when I was dark and twisted inside. 

He blamed me heavily for killing my mother. My mother who had loved reading over me. She could stay locked up in the attic for over six hours, her eyes trying to take in every word in a book. Whenever I had come to ask her if she needed anything, she would go, "I'm fine, Arrya. I have everything I need in my little world".

Every damn time. I think I had heard those words more times than I've heard the words "I love you" from her. I missed her so much. I had never felt the same since she keeled over in this same space, a happy smile on her face. How was I supposed to know she had starved herself all day to be able to buy new books? How was I supposed to know that she hadn't eaten?

I should have asked one last time, maybe I would have noticed her sunken eyes and dehydrated body before it was too late. Now she is gone and I missed her so much. I wiped the tears that were starting to run down my face and bunched my red hair into a band while staring at my image on the little box mirror on the vanity. This vanity was older than my life. It has been my mother's. Everything in here had been my mother's including the clothes I was putting on. I stared at my sea green eyes and my ordinary face and the rather disturbing dust of freckles sprinkled on my nose. I hated my appearance. Because everytime I looked in the mirror, I saw her. Everytime my stepfather saw me, he saw her. 

It was repulsive and I hated it. I hated that she had given me her face and gone to die a very stupid death. Well, that wasn't the problem now. I needed to escape the looming marriage between her and Thomas. I couldn't surrender her life to that wife beater and his blood sucking family. I would rather kill myself. Money. I needed money. And I needed to work my ass off to be able to afford a train to London by the weekend. 

The next two days

"What do you mean I have to pay tax?", I gritted out, my voice pitch high from anger. They wanted to take my money away. My hard earned money.

"I'm under the household of the Glenfield. My father pays the taxes", I tried to explain, while also trying to stave off the tears I could feel coming up in my eyes. I never called my stepfather, my stepfather outside. I called him father. Most people thought he was but only within my house walls did I know the truth. Fuck, how had I gotten here.

I stared at the bland man towering over me, his face caught in a lecherous snare as he looked me up and down like I was dinner. I stomped the bile that rose up in my throat trying not to assess his stickly build. Thomas Yhoul looked like someone who was rotting on the inside from a disease. His skin was pasty and his blonde colored hair looked like it was already falling off in the middle. 

He was thin and gawky and he smelled like the cigarette factory or his whole office did. He was still staring at me with that obscene look on his face and I wished to hell I was somewhere else.

I had been mowing Mrs Witleburg's lawn when two gruff men had come up to me and said I was needed at Yhoul's office. At first, my head had gone to what my stepfather had said the day before. The words rang in my head and fear caused my heart rate to triple. What if it wasn't taxes he wanted to talk to me about?

"You're past seventeen", Thomas snapped. "You're old enough to pay your taxes".

What? My curiosity rose as well as my anger. Since when was that a rule? The rule was so long as I was still under my parents roof, we paid as a unit. 

"That doesn't make any sense", I snapped back, my eyes widening as I realized what I had done. Shoot. I was really asking for a clean death. 

Thomas sneered, his discolored teeth showing through the slight lift of his lips In anger at my disrespect. I bowed my head down in apology but refused to utter the words from my mouth. 

"My father has paid the taxes', I said defiantly. In all honesty, I had no idea if he had.

"Yes. He has", Thomas smiled and I was filled with fear. I gripped my hands behind my back, my eyes darting around his bleak office. I hadn't even studied it when I was brought in. I just knew there was a low hearth crackling in the corner and a rundown bookshelf next to his long beaten down desk and the chair behind it. 

Thomas' sneer was unwavering and I looked around for a source of escape. I needed to run out of here. I needed to get the hell away from him.

"Aren't you curious as to what I meant?" Thomas spoke again, his voice sharp and irritated. He sounded like he wanted to strike me for not asking him. 

"I didn't think you were a man who twisted words", I mumbled and jumped as Thomas' hand slammed on his table. 

"I would so enjoy breaking you to pieces". "I'm sure your father has informed you that we are to be wed".

My heart beat faster and I had to bite my lip from cursing at him. I would never marry him even if I was about to be trampled on by a thousand horses and he was my lifeline. I would rather hear the hooves crush my bones bit by bit. 

"We wed in two days".