My lips trembled as I curled into myself, bracing for the next strike. The leather belt whistled through the air—a sound I had learned to dread—before it cracked against my skin with savage precision. The metal buckle carved welts across my back, each one burning like a fresh brand. Flesh split with every blow, but I would not give Uncle Vernon the satisfaction of hearing me cry. I had learned that lesson years ago.
My crime? Burning a single slice of bacon while setting the table— The smell of scorched meat lingered in the kitchen, mingling with the iron tang of blood soaking into my shirt.
Aunt Petunia and Dudley sat at the dining table, unmoved by the violence unfolding a few feet away. Morning shows blared from Dudley's birthday televisions, their cheerful laughter and canned applause a grotesque soundtrack to my punishment. Dudley chewed noisily, smearing jam across his lips, while Petunia dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin in neat little motions. My own breakfast, as always, was long since forfeited. Their indifference cut deeper than Vernon's belt ever could.
When my silence finally tested his patience, Vernon's meaty fist tangled in my long black hair, still damp from pre-dawn scrubbing. He yanked me up with a grunt and flung me into my cupboard so hard the family photos rattled on their hooks. His heavy steps shook the hallway, each one vibrating through my bones. Dust rained down as his voice followed, each word sharper than the belt itself: "Worthless… burden… freakishly…"
I lay still in the dark, motionless long after they had finished eating, counting their footsteps the way some children count sheep. My eyes automatically locked knto the three shelfs built into my room as mh ears counted 93 steps each one thundered overhead like a storm rolling through the house. Only when silence settled over Privet Drive—a silence I had learned to read like a language—did I dare move. I pushed against the rough wall for support, ribs flaring with pain. My raw lip split again, the copper taste of blood coating my tongue. A sharp yell at the edge of my lips that I swallowed whole.
The walls had ears here. They always had.
Above me, the ceiling creaked as my "family" prepared for their day, each sound a note in the familiar symphony of torment. A suitcase rolling down the hallway. Petunia's clipped voice scolding Dudley about his shoes. Vernon's impatient grumble. When the front door finally closed and locked, I let out the breath I had been holding, my chest heaving with quiet relief. Solitude. At last.
That's when my friends emerged. Seven spiders, gliding down on nearly invisible threads, their delicate bodies glimmering in the strips of light that pierced the cupboard slats. Their shadows danced across the wood, a silent ballet that had comforted me more nights than I could count.
They had never allowed me school, claiming to "homeschool" their unruly niece. I had taught myself instead, scavenging Dudley's discarded homework, tracing letters by cupboard light. But I could count six of them. 48 legs, 36 eyes, seventeen new bruises, 13 welts, and eight heavy steps that rang outside my door.
My cupboard door slammed open. Aunt Petunia's face appeared suddenly, her long neck craning forward at an unnatural angle, reminding me of the Rokurokubi from Dudley's horror films—the ones I had been beaten for "letting him watch" despite being locked away myself. Her bony fingers clawed into my shirt, nails reopening wounds as she dragged me out by hair, neck, whatever skin she could seize. The morning light stabbed my eyes.
"Ssshh! You stupid, ungrateful little minger!" she hissed, coffee-soured breath hot against my face as she hauled me like rubbish to the back door.
Usually, this meant gardening duty—her yearly campaign to win the neighborhood competition despite killing more plants than she nurtured. She had placed last five years running, and somehow it was my fault. As if I could control death .
But the plants knew better. They leaned toward me as if in recognition, leaves straightening, stems reaching for my touch. Under my hands, they flourished in quiet defiance of her neglect.
Though today was different. The air held an unusual chill for June, raising gooseflesh across my battered skin. Petunia's grip tightened around my throat. With sudden force, she shoved me beyond the white picket fence I had painted last summer. My body hit the ground hard, pain roaring through my back and thighs. Air fled my lungs in a gasp.
Her eyes darted up and down the street before she leaned close, voice sharp with menace.
"Our trip is coming soon," she whispered. "And I will not let some useless, loitering freak siphon off our heat while we're gone."
Her foot connected with my leg. Dirt sprayed across my face as she ground it in with her shoe. Then she turned on her heel and retreated inside. From the window, she watched me choke on grit, her thin lips curled in satisfaction.
I counted the fence pickets a hundred times, then a hundred more, bargaining silently with myself. If I apologized the right way, maybe she would let me back in. If I stayed very still, maybe she would forget her anger. But the hours dragged, shadows stretching across the garden, and deep down I knew. Just like last year, I would not be allowed back until their holiday ended. Three long weeks of survival.
Clutching the fence, I hauled myself upright and peered over the white slats. Through the window, Petunia smiled as she welcomed Dudley home with a feast fit for royalty. They cuddled on the couch, laughter spilling across the room as Vernon joined them, brandy in hand. A perfect tableau of domestic bliss—if you ignored the bruised girl left to rot in the garden.
Bitter bile rose in my throat, but the garden answered before despair could. The plants swayed toward me, their leaves brushing my face like a parent's touch. A ripe tomato bent on its vine until I plucked it free. A cucumber followed, my meager rations gathered with reverence.
Then I did what I had never dared. I walked away.
Three steps became twelve, twelve became forty-eight. Still, the door remained locked. Fifteen houses down, I turned once. Number Four, Privet Drive looked smaller now than its ever been in my eyes, its pristine facade painted over years of cruelty like makeup over a bruise.
Night fell, and with it, my oldest companions returned. Ribbons of opalescent shadow and light spilled from the dark, gliding ahead like will-o'-wisps. They had comforted me in the cupboard when nights stretched endless, and now they beckoned me forward. Their glow slipped through my fingers when I reached for them, but I followed anyway.
Hours blurred as I walked, the neighborhood lights dwindling behind me. My legs shook with every step, hunger gnawed deep, but still I pressed on. At last, I collapsed in an alley, my stolen produce clutched in trembling hands. Each bite of tomato and cucumber was a victory against starvation, juice dripping down my chin like holy water in a desert.
I leaned against the cold brick, tilting my gaze to the stars—the same stars that had witnessed every blow, every locked door, every muffled scream. They burned steady, patient, as if waiting for me to finally look up.
Though my eyelids only grew heavier. I jerked awake at distant sounds, fought the pull of exhaustion—until I couldn't.
Exhaustion dragged me under at last. The shadows kept their vigil, guarding a girl who had chosen the unknown over pain she knew too well.