I was only seven. My life had been filled with hardship and pain. Violence, abuse and criminal acts had always been part of my life.
I knew nothing else, I was never taught about what was morally right or wrong. I belonged to a family of crime, sexual abuse, robbery, of poverty and hunger.
I always questioned why had I been give the life I had been given. Why couldn´t I have come from a home where my parents had shown me love?
Why did I have to hear the violence of their words? The harsh slaps and punches I received every day?
Most of the time when I got home from school, there was nothing in the fridge to eat. Just cans and bottles of liqueur. If I was lucky, there was a carton of milk. I would help myself to a glass and made sure I took small sips to make the pleasure last longer. Savouring the flavour and taste in my mouth as it slowly made it´s way to my stomach crying out with pain.
I was the skinnest child in my class and I wasn´t very tall. I would be pushed and laughed at and called midget – like an insect crawling for survival.
I hoped one day that I would be big and strong and that it was just a matter of time. I had never thought that the lack of food and drink at my home really mattered. I even was naive to think that all children were going through the same.
I had had enough, my stomach rumbled and the pain was so intense. I just wanted something to eat. Where could I get event just a small morsel of food.
Then it struck me …… to be continued – by Natasha