Winter, 1970, Daily City, California.

I'm alone.

I'm hungry and I'm shivering in the dark.

I sit on top of my hands at the bottom of the stairs in the garage.

My head is tilted backward.

My hands became numb hours ago.

My neck and shoulder muscles begin to throb, but that's nothing new.

I've learned to turn off the pain.

I am mother's prisoner. I am nine

years old and I've been living like this for years. Every day it's the same thing. I wake up from

sleeping on an old army caught in the garage, perform the morning chores, and if I'm lucky, eat

leftover breakfast cereal from my brother's bowls. I run to school, steal food, return to the house,

and am forced to throw up in the toilet bowl

to prove that I didn't commit the crime of stealing any food.

I receive beatings or play another one of her,

games, perform afternoon chores,

then sit at the bottom of the stairs until I'm summoned to complete the evening chores. Then, and only if I have completed all of my chores on time, and if I have not committed any

crimes, I may be fed a morsel of food. My day ends only when mother allows me to sleep on the army

cot, where my body curls up in my meek effort to retain any body heat.

The only pleasure in my life is when I sleep.

That's the only time I can escape my life.

I love to dream.

...