The Wretched Soul: The Tale of Poppy from York
Poppy grew like weeds by the roadside—unwanted, untamed. No one nurtured her, spoiled her, or showed her kindness. Her clothes were hand-me-downs, sometimes nothing but rags clinging to her thin knees. Her shoes were always too big, full of holes. Her mother hacked her hair into a ragged bowl cut, too lazy to bother with styling, but the strands stuck out like silent rebellion against the world’s indifference.
She never went to nursery—her parents couldn’t be bothered. All that concerned them was where to find their next drink. Her father—a cruel drunkard. Her mother—Glenda, forever chain-smoking and nursing a hangover. Poppy hid in stairwells when they turned violent. To run meant escaping bruises. If she wasn’t quick enough, she’d smear ointment over the marks later. Neighbours sighed, shaking their heads: Glenda had always been flighty, they muttered, but after taking up with a thug, she’d gone to the dogs. Pitiful Poppy. They fed her, gave her clothes. But anything decent, her mother pawned for booze. So the girl stayed in tatters.
When school began, Poppy clung to learning like a lifeline. Books became her refuge—a world where no one hit her, screamed at her, or made her feel small. She devoured them, hunched in the library, answering questions in class, raising her voice—soft but steady—hoping someone might listen.
But children are cruel, especially to those who stand out. Poor, odd, with that ridiculous haircut, she was quickly dubbed “The Misfit.” Worse still, parents warned their kids against her: “That drunkard’s daughter—stay clear.” Teachers, though they saw potential, turned a blind eye. Easier to ignore than defend a girl with no family or favours. So Poppy grew alone—against the world.
Her sanctuary was an ancient oak in the park by the pond. Beneath its branches, she built a hideaway. Here she read, dreamed, sometimes even slept when home was unbearable. Only stray dogs and cats listened—the only ones who never betrayed her.
Her father died when she was fourteen. Frozen in a snowdrift after another binge. At the funeral—just Glenda and Poppy. The girl felt no grief. Only shame and relief. After that, her mother spiralled. Rage gave way to stupor. Work was long forgotten. To survive, Poppy scrubbed stairwells for spare change, buying second-hand medical books—dreaming of becoming a doctor. Maybe then she could pull her mother from the abyss.
But the torment at school never stopped. One day, running late, she dropped her psychiatry textbook. And there stood Regina—the queen bee, the class beauty. She snatched it up, read the title, and sneered:
“Oh, psychiatry! So you’re not just a misfit—you’re mad, like your mum!”
Poppy cracked. Sobbing, she fled through the yard to her oak. Collapsing in the snow, she wept into the bark. “Why are they so cruel? What did I ever do?”
Then she saw the dog—on the pond, stepping onto thin ice. It fell through. Poppy screamed, lunged forward. Sprawled on the ice, she crawled, grabbed the pup—just as the ice gave way. The cold punched her chest, stole her breath. She fought—for the dog, for herself, for everyone she’d ever loved.
As her strength faded, the ice coffin closing overhead—someone pulled her out. It was Oliver. The new boy, just transferred from Leeds. Clever, quiet, painfully handsome. Girls adored him. Yet he reached for Poppy.
“Come on. You’ll freeze. My mum’s a doctor—she’ll help.”
He took the dog too. Sheltered them both. And the next day, he walked into class beside Poppy. Regina hissed:
“You’re serious?! She’s a misfit!”
“Only the soul can be wretched,” he said calmly. “No clothes or lipstick can hide it. The harder you try, the clearer it shows.”
Regina paled and fled. The room fell silent. And for the first time, Poppy didn’t feel alone. She had a friend. A dog, Daisy, saved from the ice. And most of all—a chance. A chance at something new.
