Flowers in the Attic by Virginia Andrews
'That's because I am stupid! You, Christopher, have all the brains!' With that I burst into tears and fled from the attic, racing past all the paper flora and fauna. Run, run, run for the stairs. Fly fly, fly down the steep and narrow wooden steps, daring fate to make you fall. Break a leg, a neck, put you in a coffin dead. Make everyone sorry then; make them cry for the dancer I should have been.
I threw myself down on my bed and sobbed into the pillow. There was nothing here but dreams, hopes - nothing real. I'd grow old, ugly, never see lots of people again. That old man downstairs could live to be a hundred and ten! All those doctors would keep him living for ever - and I would miss out on Halloween - no tricking, no treating, no parties, no candy. Oh, I felt sorry for myself, and I vowed somebody was going to pay, pay, pay for all of this, somebody was, somebody was!
Wearing their dirty white sneakers, they came to me, my two brothers and my small sister, and each sought to give me comfort with small gifts of cherished possessions: Carrie's read and purple crayons, Cory's Peter Rabbit story book; but Chris, he sat and looked at me. I never felt so small.
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