The Truth About The Farm

I was with my brother Tommy playing monopoly and out of the blue my grandpa Tony came in. It wasn’t unusual because he lives here with us. He told us to come into the living room. Me and Tommy look at each other. My grandpa looked serious. Dead serious. We followed him and he told us about a new tradition. Every year, 2 months into the summer, the kids’ names (Tommy and Lily) and their cousins, would be put in a jar, and the first 3 names would go to the farm. They would be there everyday so they could learn how to help out.

Tony said it was because we did nothing but relax in the house and did not help out. But the truth was, that since summer started, we did nothing but chores. So technically we were helping out, but Tony said no excuses.

So, next year the torture began. For the first month we did chores. Nothing fun. Then when it was the day my heart dropped. I was one of them, and my brother was the other. I had an hour to pack and on the car ride no one talked—3 hours of silence. When we got there, we did not just garden, we put carrots out and used ropes to move boulders. My hands were bleeding a lot and we only had one meal a day. One day, I had enough. The skin on my hands was basically gone and there was still 1 month left of work.

I snuck out and made it past the farm gate, but when I went to start the motorcycle that was attached to the truck, the noise echoed though the field. My grandpa heard the noise and woke up. My brother woke up and ran towards me. He hid me behind the hay and told me to be quiet. My grandpa screamed at him and brought him to the shed. I heard screams of pain from the shed and he never came out. Later when we were leaving, he was there in the far back of the truck covered in bruises, silently crying.

After I saw my brother like that, I lost it. When we got back home, I called the police and told them about what happened. I never saw what was happening, but what I knew is that my grandpa got arrested.