I’m cold, so cold. I look down and I’m barefoot, walking down the hall of my childhood home in my nightie. It’s threadbare and I outgrew it a year ago, the arms stop midway between my elbows and my wrists, but I don’t care. It’s my favorite. It has the most beautiful picture of my favorite princess on it, Belle. Sometimes, I like to pretend that I’m Belle. That I’m locked inside a huge stone castle and that my worn paperbacks and library books are like the leather-bound books she got to read. I like to imagine that my empty bedroom is that beautiful library she went to in the movie.

Sometimes, I like to pretend that my parents are like the Beast. That they’re just rough and uncaring on the outside because they’ve been cursed by an evil witch. I let myself imagine that, on the inside, they’re really aching for my love as much as I am for theirs. That their abuse, or even worse, their neglect, isn’t really them. It’s not how they really feel about me. It’s just a spell they’re under.

In a way, it’s true. They are under a spell, I think. I mean, it feels like a curse. Caused by the crystallized mixture they make in the bathroom. It looks like shattered glass, or maybe more like ice. Ice seems right, since it froze their hearts.

In my gut, a dull pain spreads. I never know what I’m going to see when I check in on my parents. I never know if they’ll have happy, sad, freaking out. I don’t even know if they’ll be alive. That’s what scares me most. Finding them. Their bodies. They might not need me, but I still need them.

I can hear them fighting tonight. They’re alive. Mom is screaming again. Something about money. They always fight over money or drugs. Sometimes, Dad hits my Mom. Sometimes my Mom throws our plates and stuff at my Dad. They crash down into jagged piles on the floor that they never clean up. I sweep up the mess. Not because it might hurt me, but because I hate how much it looks like that stuff they make. Meth.

“Well, what the fuck are we going to do, John? We need to pay him tomorrow. To-fucking-morrow, you asshole!” Mom screams.

Dad puffs up. Sometimes, he looks like he inflates. Like, most of the time, he’s a popped balloon. Just lying flat against the couch all the time, like he’s trying to become a part of it. Then, when they’re fighting, he blows up. His arms and legs seem to grow and his chest rounds out.

“Fuck, Marj, why is this my problem? You’re freaking out at me, but you spent the money too. We’ll just have to pawn more shit and make up for it,” Dad looked around the room for something he could sell to the old man at the pawn shop who always rolled his eyes when he saw us. Dad always said that guy was a con artist, ripping him off for his good stuff like our dining room set and my dresser.

Standing in the doorway of our living room, I look around for what he could sell. However, I see the same thing he does.

Nothing.

His eyes rest on me. It’s like looking into the eyes of a dead fish washed up on shore. Glassy and damaged by too much exposure to the sun. “Maybe we should just sell her,” he nods at me.

I feel my eyes go wide. I know better than to talk back. I know better than to make a peep. Instead, I silently beg him to change his mind. I try not to cry.

“Just kidding,” he finally answers my prayers after looking like he gave the idea some serious thought.

“You know, that’s not a half bad idea,” Mom stares over at me. It’s the first time I can remember her looking right at me, and seeing me since… well, I can’t remember.

Where Dad’s eyes look like a dead fish, hers are like a shark. Dark, muted, dangerous.

“Oh, come on, Marj. No one is going to buy your bucktooth, bruised up kid. What are you going to do? Put her on Kijiji?” Dad mocks her.

“You fucking idiot, that’s not how you would sell her. I mean, by the hour.” She smiles at me, but with her blackened, cracked teeth and the flash in her eyes, it’s far from the happy face I once knew. She’s far from the mother I need.

I run back down the hall, not sure what she means, but knowing I don’t want to be sold. I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to be thrown out like a bag of trash. I just want them to love me. Why don’t they love me?

I slam my door and bury myself in my thin blanket. I don’t care if I’m cold anymore. I just don’t want them to sell me.

I sit up in bed. Tears streaming down my face and sweat broken across my forehead.

I’m cold, but unlike the child who froze while her parents discussed whether or not to sell her, I’m an adult. It’s in the past. It’s all far in the past. I swing my feet over the edge of the bed. There’s no way I’m going back to sleep. I might as well go try to warm up. I wipe away my tears, but fresh ones are already in their place.

I’m an adult.

It’s over.

It’s ok now.

I lie to myself. Just like the little girl who pretended to be Belle, I still tell myself that I’m ok. But, I know deep down, I’m not.