Scars Chapter One The Hell House

Everyone has scars. With each scar tells a story. This is my story, my deepest scar of all. Shuddering, I think back on the years of my torment. The merciless torture I miraculously survived. Gripping the cold, metal fence I stare up at that beautiful Victorian house. Others see the beauty of it yet, my mind is a picture show of horrible events. Bravely, I inhale; unlatching the gate I take short semi-confident strides up to the front porch. Chills race throughout my body once my boot nudges the first porch step. Behind me the autumn leaves rustle; startling me, I spin back around to see nothing more than the tumbling tokens of autumns presence. Continuing up the stairs I reach the platform of the wrap around porch, turning to look to the road where my car sits I reminisce on the day I first saw hell and met the devil face to face.

It was spring and the air was masked with the sweet scent of flowers and the murmuring of bees on the breeze. Being an orphan at two I became adopted at six. I gazed wide eyed at the Victorian beauty from the back seat of the social workers black Chevrolet. With my nose pressed to the window I took in every detail as my social worker went on and on about how my life would never be the same anymore. Oh how the woman was right, but my life would not be the same anymore sadly not in the sense she had meant it to be. The woman powered her way up to the front door, half way dragging me behind her by my dwarf sized hands. She knocked on the door using the huge, weathered, serpent door knocker. She stood back a step; clicking her heels impatiently she glanced at her watch as though she had a following engagement that was far more important to her precious time.

The social worked let out an overly dramatic sigh and stepped toward the door again as to have another knock on it. She wasn’t able to bear down on the door again with the knocker for it swung open releasing the warm sugary smell of gingerbread cookies. Standing in the doors entrance towered a man in what seemed to be in his mid-thirties early-forties. He wore a tanned work shirt and dusty overalls. His face was prodded with stubble and fine wrinkles creased the corners of his eyes.

“Hello I’m Jeanie Brock with social services, Mr. Skuller” she questioned, checking to see if she had arrived at the right house.

“Yes I’m Damien, Damien Skuller. Nice to meet you Miss Brock” He answered extending his hand.

She took his hand and shook it firmly. Wasting no time she pulled her clip board with the last official adoption papers clipped to it, thrusting it to him with a pen and pointed out where he needed to sign and initial. There were no introductions of my presence there, me the minority with nothing to say. I stood silent and patiently stared down at my feet. My thoughts began to wonder about how my life would be living with Mr. Skuller. How it would be different from the children’s home I had lived in since I was young.

My mind wandered off to thoughts of having my own room and probably a puppy as well. The fenced in yard seemed big enough for one. Curiously I peeked around the man to see if I could get a sneak peak of my new home. Drat, I couldn’t see past the man because the door was partially closed. I sighed and stared back up at the man scribbling his signature into the doctrines. His demeanor seemed gentle but there was a hardness, a bitterness about his air. He cut his eyes down to mine, chills ran down my spine. I turned from him quickly and faced my social worker quickly tugging at her suit jacket.

“Now Mr. Skuller if you are married you’ll need to- What is it Michelle, can’t you see I’m in the middle of something?”

“I don’t wanna stay here, I’m afraid” I said quickly and quietly, praying she would take me back to the orphanage where I felt safe.

“Miss Brock it’s obvious she’s nervous,” he said talking with his hands and the he looked down at me placed his hand on my shoulder, “don’t worry little one everything will be just peachy”. His words dragged slowly through the sentence. I loathed this man for trying to tell me how I felt.
“Michelle, you’ll be fine all I need is one more signature from Mr. Skuller then you’ll have a home all your own. Wouldn’t you like that so much?” my social worker said with pleading in her eyes, begging me not to undo yet another adoption opportunity. Bowing my head I shook it unwillingly in reply. It really didn’t matter if had said anymore, it wouldn’t have mattered. Mr. Skuller signed his last name with a quick scribble of his left wrist and it was final. I was officially adopted by into a hell house.