Titus

No one ever noticed me or acknowledged my existence, for all intents and purposes I was invisible. I was the girl who sat on her own and spent an entire day without speaking to a single soul. My
classmates were unsure of me, they would look at me with scepticism and scorn. I know they gossiped about me behind my back; I was labelled weird and peculiar. I dressed and acted differently to most of them, my clothes were all second hand, but I never cared about
appearances. Due to the nature of my father's job we moved around a lot, I attended over nine different schools throughout my education. When I was younger I actually believed my father when he told me he worked as a disciple. It wasn't until I was a bit older that I realised he was in fact a lay preacher. I never disclosed any information about my family to an interested party. It was tough
enough being labelled the weird kid, as well as having a father believing he'd been sent by God to save the world. I once told someone he was dead, just to prevent any further quizzing and
questioning, I just wanted to be left alone. If the truth be known I was ashamed of my family. As the eldest of six children, I was the one who my siblings looked up to for guidance and security. My
father was unapproachable, he was tall in stature with a very domineering presence. He married my mother when she was in her early twenties, as he was approaching forty. She was a subservient wife, never questioning him or contradicting him, which irritated me so much. She acted like a simpleton just to inflate my father's ego.  In school I was excluded from any religious education classes as my father deemed them futile. He thought he could do a much better job
educating his children about God. Our house was always busy, I never recall it ever being completely silent. My father would drive around the city at night and pick up “lost souls” as he called them, mainly homeless people. He would feed them, and give them a bed for the night and then they were gone by the following morning. We never really had much to do with them, they were my father's flock and he tended to them. I once suggested to my mother that he cared
more about those strangers than his own family, which was met with a very hard slap across my face. My mother wouldn't hear any derogatory comments about my father, she genuinely believed his falsities that he'd been sent by God to save the poor and afflicted.

She was too blind to see that he was in fact an overbearing bigoted bully, who disparaged her, and treated her like a simpleton. For a Christian he was so two faced, always judging and criticising people. He would be as nice as pie to someone's face, but behind closed doors he was a tyrant. I despised him, but unlike my timid mother I wasn't afraid of him, and he knew it. Around the age of fifteen I really started to question a lot of things, God, existence, and naturally became quite rebellious. On top of everything else my father was also a misogynist, and would never accept that women could possess intelligence and independent thought. As far as he was concerned, women were put on the earth to reproduce and be subservient wives. My incessant questioning was always met with more slaps across the face, which later turned into regular beatings. After one punch too many, I decided to run away. He couldn’t control me and it infuriated him. Despite being penniless with no where to go, anywhere was better than living in that hell.

The time I spent living on the streets was extremely tough, but it was a big learning curve. I realised how much of a sheltered life I'd led with my puritan parents. They claimed to be doing God's work
by helping others, but in actual fact they didn't have a bloody clue about real life. I made friends quite quickly, most of whom were prostitutes. Looking back I realise they were trying to protect
me from lurid men looking for young girls to exploit. I was lucky though, thankfully I didn't end up in prostitution or on drugs. I was rescued off the streets by Titus, he was my own personal
saviour. When I met him he was walking the streets with a small group of people around the same age as me. He wore a large crucifix around his neck and had a warm smile, so I thought he can't
be all that bad. I vividly recall when he stretched out a hand to me and simply said, “sister, you look lost. Would you like to join a new family?” I'll never forget that distinct smell of stale
tobacco on his hands. Initially he was met with some trepidation from my protectors, but eventually they relented seeing how relaxed I was with him and the others accompanying him. Somehow it just felt right, so I willingly took his hand in mine and left.

My new home was an abandoned three storey house on the other side of town. I was quite astonished to discover even more people around my age living there. Everyone seemed so friendly and welcoming, I couldn’t believe my luck. For the first time in ages I actually felt like part of a real family. Titus would listen attentively and answer my many questions relating to religion and existence, subjects I was never able to discuss openly with my parents. The house was known as a family church for lost and wandering souls. We didn't pray to God as such, we all had
our own individual beliefs and lived as one big family. Titus was the figure and we were his children. I never learned his real age, but judging from the wisps of grey hair he must have been
in his late forties, I also doubted that his real name was Titus. Of my limited knowledge of the Bible, I knew that Titus was a companion of the Apostle Paul. During the day we were kept busy making things to sell on the internet, such as jewellery, cushion covers, knitwear, anything that could be made by hand we made it. I was surprised to discover I had a hidden talent for sewing. Titus put
some rules in place in exchange for food and shelter, which at the time were minimal. However, little did I realise how his rules would eventually control and dominate our very existence.

 
The first time I heard the incessant banging on the front door my heart nearly jumped out of my body. I furtively glanced from the corner of an upstairs window and saw two big burly men standing next to a much smaller thinner man holding a clip board. It didn't take a genius to work out they were bailiffs. Titus ordered us to stay out of sight and remain quiet while he spoke to them through a bolted door. That was the first time we all witnessed the other side of his personality, until then he'd kept it well hidden. He got so angry with the bailiffs that veins protruded through his neck, he
looked like he was going to spontaneously combust. With each syllable uttered he became more and more incoherent, he was like a rabid dog. That was the day I realised I'd made a big mistake
coming to this house, the man was clearly unstable. The performance with the bailiffs went on for a further twelve months until I eventually escaped.

 
Over time Titus' temper became progressively worse, he'd have terrible moods swings. When he was happy things were okay in the house, but when the slightest thing irritated him, he could turn really nasty. His split personality put us all on edge, we were constantly walking
around on egg shells. The rules in the house also increased, we had to ask his permission to do anything, even to use the toilet. His compulsive behaviour was exhausting to watch, checking and re-checking things.The man with the warm smile who rescued me off the streets all those months ago had long gone. I slowly watched him turn from a kind and gentle man into an aggressive monster with malevolent eyes. He was on some sort of ego trip, believing he was some kind of mini-God. We were all fooled by him at first and lulled into a false sense of security. Just like my father he gained respect through being feared, the only difference being I wasn't afraid of my father. The place I called home had slowly turned into a prison. I'd escaped from one tyrant, and was determined not to relive that nightmare again.

 
Our knowledge of the outside world was slowly diminishing. He moved the TV into his bedroom, denying us of that privilege. He kept all mobile phones locked up, even newspapers and magazines were banned. We were however allowed to read books, as he'd turned an entire room
into a walk-in library. Ironically we never had time to read anything as we were always busy working. We were woken at 5am and went to sleep at 11pm, we stopped only to eat. During the day we
worked non-stop making things to sell, it was relentless. I was exhausted, but I knew I had to devise an escape plan, otherwise I'd end up dying from exhaustion. I started to monitor Titus' daily
routine, he took a cocktail of medication each morning, each tablet carefully laid out on a small plate. The only person he seemed to trust was a young boy around seventeen, who administered his medication. They were very tactile with one another, but that wasn't
my concern. I slowly befriended the boy, he was extremely close to Titus, and I knew he would be my only way of escaping, He was chatty and happily accepted my cups of tea, and subtle questioning. He didn't seem particularly bright, it was so easy obtaining information from him. Titus permitted him to go out twice a week to run various errands for him. He went out every Tuesday and Friday morning to collect basic supplies such as tobacco, for his chain smoking adiction, and more importantly his medication. After nearly six weeks of monitoring the boy's routine, I discovered how he got in and out of the house. There was a purpose built hatch in the cellar, unbeknown to the bailiffs of course. With his lithe body he was able to get in and out without much effort. He reminded me of a rat  scurrying about, from then on in I referred to him as “rat boy.” It was time to put phase two of my plan in place and escape.

 
I can't believe it was so easy, my plan went like clockwork. It feels great to inhale my first breath of fresh air, and to be free at last. The summer rays beam down on my on my milk bottle coloured skin, everything seems so bright. The grass seems greener. Strangers passing me by are smiling, everyone is so friendly. I often wonder about the others in the house, if they've also managed to escape? My mother always said I had too much of an active imagination and it would be my downfall. However, it's my imagination that keeps me going, without it I would be dead by now, if only she could see me now. A tray of food and a glass of milk are shoved under the door.
I come away from the small window, which is fastened by iron bars. I underestimated rat boy, he was more astute than I'd anticipated. I did escape, but only for a split second. A bag was put over my head and I was dragged back inside by my hair. I'll never forget that distinct smell of stale tobacco. One day I'll be free, one day.