Slave Girl Read Online Free PDF Page B

spend hours and hours lost in the world that I created with just a sheet of paper and some pencils or crayons. But as Dad’s abuse worsened, the images had grown darker and more menacing. Mum tells me that I used to draw pictures of a little girl trapped in a cave or a castle with a figure that looked like a witch outside. She thinks now that she was that witch and that I was trying to make her see that she should help the little girl – but all that happened was that the teachers at school threw the drawings away.
    At Riverside, I rediscovered the joys of art – and the teachers encouraged me. One year, as Christmas approached, they held a competition for the best-designed Christmas card. I worked and worked on my drawing – a snowy landscape with a cheerful-looking house and white smoke puffing out of the chimney, and above it – of course – Santa Claus with his reindeer and his sleigh piled high with toys.
    It sounds terribly corny and absurdly childish for someone who had been through all I’d endured. But it was done with love and ambition, and I was as proud as can be when I won our little competition. I, worthless little Sarah Forsyth – abused child and teenage tearaway – had done something right for once, and someone else had noticed! I couldn’t wait to tell Mum.
    But the teachers at Riverside had another idea – and it was so much better. They arranged to have a number of copies of the card printed – properly, professionally printed – so that I could send them out like a normal person. I couldn’t believe it when they told me: I thought I was going to burst with happiness.
    God, how proud Mum was of me, too. She was absolutely full of real joy – the first, I’m sure, that I had given her for many, many years. She treasured that little Christmas card and showed it to everybody she could for a long time afterwards. Isn’t it funny how much little things can mean?
     
     
    My brother would come and visit me at Riverside every few weeks. He had found out about what Dad had done to me and my God, he was furious. He told me he’d been round to see Dad to confront him. In response our dear father beat him up.
    Even though I was away from him, somehow my brother and I became closer than before. I’ll always remember the clothes he brought me – T-shirts and jeans – and the cigarettes he used to smuggle in to the home for me in pairs of trainers. And we’d go out on to the surrounding hills for long, lovely walks. I loved my brother: he was my rock and my lifeline.
    I stayed at Riverside for three years: happy years, by and large, and a much-needed respite from the misery of my childhood. I was 13 when they sent me there, and the years seemed to fly by. Somehow, without noticing it, I was about to turn 16. I had been in care for almost five years. Other than occasional visits from my brother and Mum I’d not really had to deal with my family. But although packing me off to the peace and tranquillity of the Lakes had probably saved my life, it suddenly dawned on me that this wasn’t going to last much longer.
    At that time the care system generally spat kids back out once they turned 16. It had rescued them from violence, neglect or sexual abuse and then, pretty much without warning, it turned its back on them. I’ve seen reports since then which show that most of the young girls (and many of the boys) working the streets in cities across Britain have been in care. Typically, they have turned to prostitution as a means of survival once the care system has finished with them. And at 16 they’re easy prey for the pimps and pushers who ensnare them with drugs and live off the money they make by renting their bodies.
    I suppose I was lucky in that I had somewhere to go once I had to leave Riverside: Mum had fixed for me to live with her again. I’d also begun to think about what I would do with my life once I left Care. My mind had drifted back to the times when I looked after my step-mum’s two