My sister had a friend. Her name was Nellie. She had a wicked smile and raking nails and would lock me in a closet for hours. My mother was to busy to hear my screams, or she just didn't care. Maybe she ignored me. I don't know.
Nellie was the one who told her she was fat. My brother told me he hasn't seen my smile in days. And I agree.
My father was never home, and so I became scared of the dark, but, ironically, not of closets. They were a safe haven in times of distress. Oh, the cruel twists of fate. This was all around the time we got Gordon the cat. I have a scar on my thigh and the back of my hand from him, along with two on my arm.