The Unforgiven PART 1

I am running. Running faster than I’ve ever run before; concentrating so I don’t fall and burn my knees on the carpet. This is what it’s come down to - my survival depends wholly on me out running the beast tracking me.

I was six when my mother died. She’d passed away after along illness and as my Father couldn’t cope every time he looked at me, he hired a nanny to care for me full time. His excuse being I was (and still am) the spitting image of my mother. THAT was ten years ago.
I have long red hair that reaches down to the small of my back, so vibrant you can easily spot me in a crowd, I have bright blue eyes that match a summers day sky and freckles almost strategically placed around my nose and chest. Being petite and slim is an advantage as I can hide in small places.
We have always lived in this large manor house, as it was my mother’s. She loved this house and its gardens. The creamy yellow of the building complimented the green grass cared for by our gardener and the steps leading up to the front porch were swept daily as we prepared for the autumn rush of leaves - the routine had been the same ever since I could remember.

There’s a sudden laughing. Not one of happiness or joy. No the laugh is evil, one of madness. My Father, he’s drunk again; now is the time for me to really worry.
Alas! I’ve come to the study door. The heavy oak wood, cold against my burning skin; the iron handle stiff. With my heart racing fast enough that if I stop it would burst out of my chest. With my father getting closer by the second, I pray silently that the door will open. Suddenly with a rush of adrenaline and the door budges and falls wide open. Rushing inside I close it before my Father can get any nearer.

Turning round, I’m met by whom I assume to be my fathers friends. Two identical men of pensioner age, dressed in smart dress jackets with hair as grey as the ash left behind from their Cuban cigars. They are playing what I think is Poker, or Black Jack. I don’t know many of card games, as my mother always said they are not for ladies. Dark eyes burrowing into me as I whisper “why, aren’t you helping me?!” the reply I was hoping for doesn't come and they look away continuing with their card game.

My Father is now right behind me. I can smell the Scotch on his breath, still laughing a demented look that could (and would) give anyone nightmares for life. He’s holding something by his side, some thing small and shiny... A hand gun!
Overwhelmed by panic, I start running again. The heavy oak door of the study still wide open, I’m grateful that after speeding passed him, he is yet catch up with me. Perhaps he is momentarily confused or stopping for a drink of scotch. No time to ponder, must concentrate on staying alive.
Then I see her. My saviour from this chase - my trusted nanny, Hilda.

                                                                                  *

My beautiful Mother, so gracious even in her final days. There was and had been no one like her, except Hilda.
Every day since my Mother’s passing she had kept me company, brushing my long red hair, reading me bed time stories. I thought of her as the closest thing to a parent in my life as my Father was practically non existent,  of course he would remember the occasions such as my birthday or Christmas but since my Mother’s  death he had avoided me like the plague,  consistently drinking and gambling. Perhaps it was his way of dealing with our loss – his loss.
You see he and my Mother had fallen madly in love many a year before, twenty to be precise when war was rife and young men were scarce after being enlisted. My Father, possibly the successfull scientist of his time) turned bomb  tester for the british army during the the war), had promised to her if he survived he would marry her the day after his return. It’s exactly what he did.
They married in a small, dank ceremony with only my grandparents there to witness it; my Mother described it as ‘perfection’.
Over the passed ten years I’ve often wondered, sometimes quietly and sometimes aloud, that if I had never been born would my Mother have taken ill and if that were inevitable would my Father still be alive today? As you see, he may not be a consistent part of my life however he provides everything I could ever want. I’m something to live for, or so I thought.
Hilda is tall and thin, straggly grey hair scraped up into a bun exposing her gaunt face (this used to scare me sometimes as a child as she was, and still is quite ghost like) her white apron covers her white and blue striped dress, her white pumps make a slight squeaky noise on the floor because they’re half a size to big. Little did I know she loved me enough to remove her shoes and stockings so that in his psychotic rampage, my Father would not hear her protecting me in our hiding place?

Convinced all is safe, I look around the room. It looks vaguely familiar as I’ve only visited briefly when I was small. Looking around me, there are just clothes, clothes and more clothes in plastic dress bags. I recognise the smell instantly. My Mother’s closet, a small tear escapes my eye but is gone within seconds of it appearing, there's no time to  cry now. Hilda rushes me to a part in the closet I never knew existed, it is not like the rest of the closet, cluttered and bagged up. No this is clear and spacious, every lump and bump in the pattern door before me is defined and beautiful, cool against my flushed skin. No, I have never been here before, but the pale light that I feel should be both feared and nurtured surrounding the door frame suggests we’re about to make a move again, the first closet door begins to open and the sniggering laugh that’s haunting me persistently has finally caught up.