Flowers in the Attic (Dollanganger Series #1) by V. C. Andrews

Author:V. C. Andrews
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Child Abuse, Families, Brothers and sisters, Problem families, Horror, Sagas, Fiction, Family & Relationships, Incest, Abuse, Suspense, Abused children, Horror fiction, General, Children, Media Tie-In, Horror tales
ISBN: 9781416510888
Publisher: Simon and Schuster
Published: 2005-08-02T05:00:00+00:00

"You're holding something back," I said, knowing him like a book I'd read a hundred times over. "You're protecting her! You saw something you don't want to tell me! Now that's not fair! You know we agreed the first day we came here to always be honest and fully truthful with each other—now you tell me what you saw!"

"Good gosh," he said, squirming and turning his head and refusing to look me straight in the eyes,

"what difference does a few kisses make?"

"A FEW kisses?" I stormed. "You saw him kiss Momma more than once? What kind of kisses? Hand kisses—or real mouth-to-mouth kisses?"

A blush heated up his chest, on which my cheek was resting. It burned right through his pajamas.

"They were passionate kisses, weren't they?" I threw out, convinced even without his say-so. "He kissed her, and she let him, and maybe he even touched her breasts, and stroked her buttocks, like I once saw Daddy do when he didn't know I was in the room and watching! Is that what you saw, Christopher?"

"What difference does it make?" he answered, a choke in his voice. "Whatever he did, she didn't seem to mind, though it made me feel sick."

It made me feel sick, too. Momma was only a widow of eight months then. But, sometimes eight months can feel more like eight years, and, after all, of what value was the past when the present was so thrilling, and pleasing . . . for, you bet, I could guess a lot went on that Chris wasn't ever going to tell me.

"Now, Cathy, I don't know what you're thinking, but Momma did command him to stop, and if he didn't, she wouldn't show him her bedroom."

"Oh boy, I bet he was doing something gross!"

"Kisses," said Chris, staring over at the Christmas tree, "only kisses, and a few caresses, but they did make her eyes glow, and then that Bart, he was asking her if the swan bed had once belonged to a French courtesan."

"For heaven's sake, what is a French courtesan?"

Chris cleared his throat. "It's a noun I looked up in the dictionary, and it means a woman who saves her favors for men of the aristocracy, or royalty."

"Favors—what kind of favors?"

"The kind rich men pay for," he said quickly, and went on, putting his hand over my mouth to shut me up. "And, of course, Momma denied such a bed would be in this house. She said a bed with a sinful reputation, no matter how beautiful, would be burned at night, while prayers were said for its redemption, and the swan bed was her grandmother's bed, and when she was a girl, she wanted her grandmother's bedroom suite more than she wanted anything else.

But her parents wouldn't let her have those rooms, fearful she'd be contaminated by the ghost of her grandmother who wasn't exactly a saint, and not exactly a courtesan either. And then Momma laughed, kind of hard and bitterly, and told Bait her parents believed she was now so corrupted that nothing could, or would make her worse than she already was.

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