"Your mother should be arrested," the voice says to me. My heart starts beating rapidly in my chest. I turn around to see that there is a man standing in front of me. He seems young—he has light brown hair and no beard or mustache. He is looking at me like he is studying me, I feel naked and so I wrap my arms around my body. I have never seen a man outside of pictures in books, much less spoken to one.

"Wh- why?" I stammer, standing up to face him. He is much taller than I am, he towers over me.

"For giving you an overdose of beauty," he says in his seductive accent that I am still trying to figure out. I have only ever heard Madam speak and so I do not know what other accents sound like.

Although it was a terrible attempt, I start blushing profusely. He just called me beautiful. I do not know what I look like but this handsome man standing before me just called me beautiful.

"It's freezing out! Aren't you cold without a coat on?" he asks worriedly.

I stand still, shivering, not able to look him in the eyes. "Who are you?" I croak.

"I'm Timothy," he says energetically.

"And what brings you here, Timothy?" I say, trying to mimic the confidence of my favourite character, Jo, from little women.

"I had a row with my dad this evening. I needed to go somewhere far away." I keep quiet partly because I do not know what to say and also because I do not want to expose myself to anyone. He continues, "I've been coming to this neighbourhood for about a year now. I'm an artist and I do some of my best artwork here. It's very peaceful here, almost feels like a cemetery," he says in a sadder tone.

"You should go," I say softly, trying not to look at him. His gaze is too warm, yet it makes me uncomfortable. It makes me feel too aware of myself, and what I look like.

I wait for him to move but he does not. I am beginning to worry that Madam will be back soon. I am tempted to just turn around and crawl back in through the window, but that would be strange. I have never read a book where someone uses a window as a main point of entry. Gosh, he probably already finds the fact that I crawled out of it extremely odd—if he saw that bit. Did he see?

He stares at me for a long time, and then he purses his lips. He studies me, and I wonder fleetingly if he really does have a term paper that he wants me to be a part of. Mostly, though, I feel naked and exposed. When he called me fine he was probably just pulling my leg—people only stare at animals in zoos, or so I've read.

"You've got some bruises," he says, frowning.

I look down, my eyes widening as I see that he's right. I never thought I would have to justify my appearance to anyone. I search my mind for the longest time.

"Sports," I say finally, my voice hoarse. I cough and repeat myself. These days, anytime I am around Madam, I'm usually nodding or crying—we do not talk much. Oh, and speaking of Madam, what if she arrives now? I cannot begin to think what she would do to me if she found me.

"What sports to you engage in?" He asks curiously. Why does he have to be so nosy?

"I have to leave now," I say.

"But, you haven't even told me your name yet! I'm Timothy." He smiles, extending his hand.

I ignore it‚—instead, I bend down to the ground and crawl back into the basement.

I crawl back into the basement and put the window bar in place, I pick up the screwdriver and take it back to the bathroom. I hide the screws in my old doll and then I lie down on my mattress and heave out a loud sigh. I am sure he thinks that I am a crazy person for crawling away like that but I do not care what he thinks for I will never see him again. The next time I sneak out I will make sure the neighbourhood is completely void of people.

I change into some dry clothes. If Madam sees me with the rain drenched dress I was in, she might get suspicious and I cannot have that happen.

I am sure that if I were a character in one of the many novels I read I will call myself a fool for not escaping despite being given a chance. I could not leave—Madam has promised me things will go back to normal. She was good to me before, and when he comes things will go back to normal. I hope he comes soon. And anyway, where would I go? I have no money. Madam houses me and gives me food. Her punishment is a small price to pay for being able to live.

I get under the sheets and close my eyes for a bit and then I faintly hear the front door open. I listen as Madam's heavy footsteps get louder as she makes her way down to the basement. She forcefully opens the door, and I jump into a seated position. It is a good thing I came in when I did—she has a large bag in her hand, and that can't be good.

"Felicity!" she yells.

"Yes Madam," I say.

"Come here this instant."

I go over to the basement door where she is standing. I start to tremble under her furious glare—it is the same anger from that day.

"Lie down flat on the floor," she commands, and I see her pull a huge whip out of her bag. I gulp, and I obey her orders. As soon as my body is in contact with the cold floor, I hear the sharp crack, and my vision blurs as she starts beating me incessantly. I can hear her sobbing, a tear lands on my neck.

I flinch at every hit, and I beg her to stop but she does not listen.

"It's your fault!" she screams. I feel my skin tear from the impact of the lashes. "It's your fault!" she cries again, and keeps hitting. When she is finally satisfied, she stops. I hear her breathing heavily.

After a while she crouches and tucks my hair behind my ears. "I'm sorry my baby, don't be afraid—when he comes everything will go back to normal," she coos in a sweet gentle tone, and starts crying again.

She stands up, and takes my empty tray that she puts my daily meal in. She walks out, and I hear her lock the basement door. I remain on the floor, unable to move. My back is sore—actually sore doesn't even begin to cover it. Words let me down in this moment. I lift my shaky hands up to my back, but even the lightest touch makes light flash in front of my face. When I look at my hands, I see that they are covered in red. I stumble as I try to get up, and fall back to the ground painfully, so I just drag my body over to my mattress. I try to climb on it but I am unable to, and so I give up.

Today, I can't do what I usually do to get through the pain—crying is just so inadequate—so I do something different. I think about the boy—man?— I met today: Timothy.