Read Unworthy: Marked to die. Raised to survive. for Free Online Page B

of milk and turning the cheeses.
    I know what they think of me, of course, and it’s nothing new. It’s getting worse though. Their whispering is becoming harder and harder to ignore. It’s as though they don’t really bother to hide their loathing anymore, and every time something happens I feel their distrust deepen.
    I’m done for the day and heading for the changing room when I hear a distressed discussion coming from the cold room. I duck my head around the door to find out what the problem is and see that Karen has one of the soft cheeses out on a slab. There is a grey mould growing all along one side, where it should be completely white.
    “They’re all the same,” she is telling the other two women. They look up at me in the doorway, and I see the same expression on all three faces when their eyes meet mine.
    “You turned them today,” Karen says, and I hear the accusation in her voice.
    Olive is the eldest of the workers, small and slight, with grey hair and a worn face. She takes a step or two back, away from me, until she can go no further. I turn away, unwilling to find the words for a defence, but my withdrawal is not quick enough. Out of the corner of my eye I see her make a sign with her fingers, swift and small, in my direction. A protective sign, as though to ward off evil.
    I try to catch my breath outside the cold room, but it’s only coming in short bursts. I hear muttering from behind the plastic drapes.
    “… dark spirits.”
    “… survive?”
    I have heard enough. I flee to the dressing room where I change as quickly as I can, grab my bag, punch out and leave the cheese shed.
    I did nothing! I want to shout. It wasn’t me! I try to remember whether the mould was on the cheeses when I turned them, but I have no idea. I suppose I was so distracted I took no notice. But I realise it wouldn’t matter anyway. They will believe what they want to believe.
    I can’t get the image of Olive making that sign out of my head. Dark spirits… dark spirits… can they really believe that I have some kind of dark powers because somehow I managed to survive the infant sickness which I contracted soon after coming into the world? And that I killed a baby? And ruined some cheeses too.
    I’m running now, heading straight for the cliff. The last thought makes me laugh bitterly. If I had the power to kill babies, I wouldn’t be wasting it by putting mould on cheeses. Maybe I’d be turning those close-minded old goats into cheeses instead.
    My satchel bounces against my leg as I run up the track. A blast of salty sea air greets me as I come out at the top of the cliff and make my way down onto the rocks. I strip down to my swimming gear – today I came prepared, wearing an old T-shirt and shorts.
    From my satchel I take two of my most prized possessions – my fishing spear and mask. The spear is a very simple contraption Grandad made for me a few years ago when he gave up trying to keep me out of the water. A loop of stretchy rubber attached to a strong aluminium tube allows me to fire a dart through the water quickly enough to spear a good-sized fish. I tie a cord around my wrist so that the dart is easily retrievable.
    When I enter the water today I don’t strike out across the bay. I stay near the shore and allow my eyes to adjust to the gloom under the surface. I take large lungfuls of air to keep me buoyant while I scout, then exhale slowly in order to dive. I’m so used to having control over my breathing now that I hardly think about it. I can stay under the water for many minutes at a time, and always know how far to push myself.
    Over the years I have considered time and again the baby that I was, and why I was deemed sickly. I’ve sought out chances to measure myself up against my peers, making myself run faster and jump higher, constantly waiting for that moment when I fall short of them. I’ve ruled out my heart, so too my lungs as the source of my weakness. I’ve searched for allergies,