The Rater kept buying me clothes I didn't want, and begged me to try them on in my room and then show her in the hall. They were frillish and fancy suits, tight in all the wrong places, and made me feel like a cloth-knit porcelain doll. It was humiliating like I'd never known before. I decided, instead, to sell the clothes and buy my own again – to which she'd said I'd betrayed her, and wasted her money. It was only once I shared my natural talent for striking deals to refresh her cluttered storage that she saw me in lighter tones again; for when she tried to make yard sales, all her prices were too high and the sodded junk stayed on her lawn until dark. I was an expert in recovering and cleaning old things, as I'd become from managing my own – hand-me-downs included. A little seam and polish, and everything was suddenly worth its weight – but only if sold as an experience, more than as a simple ware. This was a specialty of mine, I found, that made it easy to justify my stay – or so I thought, until she'd glower down on me for not working again. She didn't mean the endless chores she'd assigned me, but a 'real' job in town, for coin. As if I had any time after I'd finished with the grounds. And wasn't she paying others MORE to do LESS of the exact same work, in the exact same house?
The children never did calm down, and the three of them stayed spoiled for a very long time. The Sheller was the least of which, but had yet her way of bending ears, and left her small bedroom a big disaster. Her mother had taken to throwing out her things, but would then buy her even more the following month – and nothing would change. Lately they'd begun to throw fists and shout, forcing The Barreler to yell at them to stop. When that didn't work, he yelled at their mother. She'd done her best, as if she could control such a crowd. They were, as far as 'controllable' goes, somewhere between a pissed-off goose and a flock of them... and about as loud, when they wanted to be. The Clamper had decided to bully his younger brother instead of me, knowing who was the most vulnerable in the room by his constant battles. Whatever was easiest to prey upon was his for the taking, it appeared. Stray pieces of food, coins from jars, and toys left unattended. Yet The Tantrum never complained, never raised his voice, until he'd had all-too much to take. The two of them were turning into a strange duo of only one mind, which belonged first and foremost to the elder. The Tantrum was still only five years old – and he'd suffered just as much as the rest of The Collector's children, even if he barely knew his father enough to miss him. It was understandable, for all of them, to clench for their familial pains; although their coping methods warranted severe revision. The Sheller's father was another story altogether, and she often visited him... in the village jail. I never learned what he did, but she adored him for a very long time, and thought the world of him. The Tantrum had no such attachment to his own progenitor. His older siblings, his mother, his grandparents, and I were the only role models he had. I felt bad for not being able to be more responsible for them, but I was still trying to find other lodging and work. The place had soured for me, ever since a violent incident some months back.

It was just last Yule, during a harsh winter, when The Tantrum had been staying with me in my room while I read. He was climbing my legs, peeking out from under my desk, and trying out new words at my ears.
Then, suddenly, my grandfather BURST into the bedroom, and growled at him, "HEY!! YOU know you're not supposed to be in here. You were supposed to stay in the living room, YOU were TOLD!!"
I'd left the door ajar, and soon I'd regret that I hadn't locked it. The little man was standing next to me, and turned his head to see them – barely registering the outburst that was coming from the door. The boy was already superior in that facet, when it came to throwing fits – and I believe the man felt threatened for it. What he got from competing with a five year old was beyond me.
The Rater, behind her husband, cried, "Come here, young one! Come with us!"
Well, it was Yule. Unlike most days, The Tantrum was actually feeling quite merry. His belly was full of cookies and cheese, and he'd had a nice hot cocoa with milk. Nobody else in the village had chocolate, it was a specialty The Rater had ordered in. It was like nothing I'd ever tasted, and made the season come alive... even for me, in my wallowed misery. For him, it might as well have been the entire holiday to itself, in that one little cup. He was content. So the little tyke, caught in naught but a cloth diaper, waddled over obediently. But it didn't matter. The Barreler had already made up his mind: the child was to be punished. He took out his belt, and folded it up in his hands. He who called himself "the man of the house" raised his arm, and lashed the poor wee bastard three times on the back. It was like the passion of the Goddamned Christ in there – little man was wailing with agony, shoulders seized upwards, cries unanswered by his so-called protectors. On his bare back, he was met with leather and solemn red streaks. I was too shocked to stand, and by the time I could, it was over. I'd heard many boys my age had been whipped by their relatives, but I'd never seen someone so young be hurt for doing nothing wrong at all. In fact, he was barely doing anything in the slightest when it happened. I wondered if the reason they hadn't whipped me was because I was still useful for hauling stones... they knew I could run away if I was too unhappy. The toddler hadn't the legs for it. I asked if it was somehow my fault, and tried to argue in his defense, but my grandfather insisted: it was a matter of mere disobedience. The child was not where he was told to be.
When I later told The Collector, she seemed worried, but never said a word to her mother about it – at least not one that I'd been witness to. I imagined she'd probably downplay it anyway, as she often did, to ease her own nerve. The Rater would later claim that she couldn't remember the incident at all – and for a moment, I couldn't tell if she was lying to cover herself, or if she'd simply drank the memory away, forever.

I returned to the here and now, from that memory. After The Barreler's departure, things were settling again, as they always did once he'd stopped enflaming them for his own stomping. It was a hard day's shoutin' for the children, even without him; matches were pissed between the three of them, their spent mother, and their own overblown reactions. Finally tuckered out, the three had cuddled up to their mother in her bed so she could read to them. They fell asleep in each other's arms. It was one of the most adorable things I'd ever seen, but I wasn't the type to invite that kind of thing for myself – I was too defensive. The Collector was doing better, having her monthly scowling and discipline budget evenly distributed across myself and The Rater quite evenly. It was The Collector and her wee ones which made the place bairable, despite their ungodly messes inside of it. With a buyer in talks, we would finally see the whole house taken off our hands. Wherever they went, I'd have to stay with them for the time being. One more year, and I'd inherit my foster father's home, once and for all. I was still trying my best to keep the place well in the meantime, washing every dish and cleaning every floor, on schedule like clockwork. I'd become more reliable than my grandmother's own accounting of me, and soon she showed me the trust I needed to set about the work of my own accord. No more monitoring, as long as the job was done – it was less work for her anyway, even if she'd found it fun, I think. That, and her opium dose was growing to match her pipeweed intake, and she was sleeping throughout the days. I had squashed myself down, to whatever was fair to ask of me. I was practically a butler for whoever needed anything, and I had barely a moment to myself between sleep.