I hate Sundays, not Monday's. Sunday means not being allowed to do anything. It's not that I like to go out to the swimming pool or so but I am literally not allowed to do anything besides waking up early, cleaning the house, and taking breakfast to my mother. She stays in bed because she deserved it. It is strange how she always is home on Sunday mornings. Perhaps the people are afraid to call her on Sunday. She can say working is not allowed but if they call she has to go. I do not know what happens if she refuses. I think she cannot refuse because they pay her. They better do not make her angry. It's not a good thing if that happens. They need her and she is mean and the doctor will not help them. The police will not help them either. I know because she kicked me out of the house several times. I had no shoes, no coat but she doesn't care. I once went to a girl in my class' home. She has a kind mom who wrapped her arms around me and said everything would be alright. It wasn't true but she believed it and was kind to me. The police were not. The shrugged their shoulders and said it is normal. Parents best up their children. They took me back home and as soon as they left my mother said I had to go and bring her the dog leash. We have three. One made of leather and two chains. A smaller chain and a heavy one. By now I tried them all. She used all of them on me but the police say it's normal. That's why I don't hate Mondays. It's safer at school than it is at home even with a mean teacher and principal and children who bully.
Sunday
September 6, 2020
A kid's diary
Stupid gift
The sailormen
A crinkle
You are mysterious my friend, please simply.