I don't want to linger if it's not necessary, but I assure you this part is important.
The car ride home was quiet.
No radio. No humming. No yelling. Just the sound of her manicured nails drumming against the steering wheel at every red light.
The Impatience.
I sat stiff in the passenger seat, trying not to breathe too loud. My side still ached from the fall, but I couldn't show it. Couldn't mention it. My wide brown eyes just stared down at the dirt-rimmed skirt and my scuffed knees. I clasped my hands tightly in a quiet prayer. I could feel the anger radiating off her—the storm she was holding back until the door shut behind us.
Do you know how hard it is not to move? Not to make any noise, not even show fear, when you know the pain that's coming?
Do you?
So praise me, dammit.
Say I did good. Tell me just once.
Even as a stranger you can understand right?
That I was strong?
That I was brave?
…No takers? None?
Well, fuck you then.
When we finally pulled into the driveway, she killed the engine. Sat there a moment, staring straight ahead. Her lips still had that polite curve, but her eyes… glassy. Hollow. Far off.
Then she turned to me.
Mask gone.
"Get inside. Now."
The minute we went inside, I kept my head down. I slipped my backpack off, walked in small steps, trying not to make a sound.
She came in after me, locked the door, and slapped me so hard my ears rang.
Her cold eyes burned into me.
"Why do I keep having to go to the school for this bullshit? Why can't you just stay out of trouble?"
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I pleaded. Over and over, the words choked out of me like a mantra. "I'm sorry, Mom."
And then it slipped — I let it out, the truth I wasn't supposed to say.
"But It wasn't my fault."
Her scoff cut me worse than the slap.
"It wasn't your fault? What's happening, huh? How is that not your fault?"
She narrowed her eyes. "Are you getting bullied?"
Shame made me look away. That was the word, wasn't it? Bullying. They weren't my friends. I kept my tear-filled eyes on the linoleum beneath me, swallowed, and gave a quick nod.
She laughed. A loud, bitter laugh that made my stomach twist.
"You deserve it. What the hell did you think was gonna happen? Look at you. You are ugly and so damn annoying."
Her hands knotted in my hair. She yanked, tightened, and slung me across the floor. I grabbed my head and weakly looked up. And that's when I saw them — my brothers.
I guess I forgot to mention them.
I had two brothers. Both born from the disgustingly quick pump-and-dump one-night stands my mom would frequently enjoy. One was fourteen, one was eight.
The fourteen-year-old was a weak, dismissive piece of shit. He sided with 'mommy dearest' whenever she battered me, but had no problem talking shit about her to his friends or letting her get used up by men — even encouraging them, because "Men have to stick together."
And the eight-year-old… what could he do? He watched in horror, and when she told him to turn away or go in his room, he did it. I don't blame him. It hurt just as much as he imagined—maybe worse. A kid's "active imagination," no matter how "active," couldn't conjure the burn in my scalp from her grip. Or the ache in my chest from her words. The self-loathing, even this young.
God, I hated myself.
Once she was done punishing me, she dismissed me.
"Go to your room. Get out of my face."
I picked myself up slowly and went to my room. I hid in my closet and let soft whimpers out as I cried. Prayed for God to help me. And at the same time, I tried to choke myself, whispering over and over that I deserved it.
I was so stupid.
Ugly.
Worthless.
I slapped myself. Bit myself. It was the only thing that seemed to make her happy—my pain.
And as much as I feared her. As much as I hated her. I still wanted her approval. I still wanted her to love me.
I'm pathetic, aren't I?
Please…
Please don't look at me—not like that.
I'm Okay…
Anyway… where was I?
After sitting in the dark, moist closet for a few hours—unacknowledged mind you.
I decided to pull myself together—shake off the numbness, before I'd go get my parents.
Yes, I did have parents.
I reached under my bed and pulled out a spare folder from school, unfolding the masses of paper bit by bit. I had a dad and a mom. One piece of paper for the head, another for the upper body, another for the lower one. I used scissors to make legs and arms. And always — always — I drew a smile on their faces. Same for my dad.
I was creative, wasn't I?
Well, maybe delusional is the word.
Even though my eyes felt heavy, my skull throbbed, and my chest hurt, I'd talk to them. And they'd tell me how much they loved me. How proud they were.
We'd hug. They'd kiss me. Pat my head. And their paper limbs were warmer than anything I'd ever felt.
And then I'd finally sleep.
You get it. This was my day-to-day.
School.
Bullying.
Call Mom.
Beat.
Self-harm.
Talk to my parents.
Sleep.
Routine.
No need to bore you with unnecessary details. I just want you to know enough to tell me if I was wrong.
The only day I wasn't beaten was Sunday, when we went to church.
I guess even abusers have to rest on the Sabbath.
At church, we were the picture-perfect family. No one doubted a thing. And for a while, I almost believed it too.
My mom seemed… happy there. Her eyes actually shined. She read from the Bible with sincerity, like she believed every word.
She made us go to Sunday school, of course. And even at seven, I was already busy: in the children's choir, an usher collecting tithes, even doing interpretive dances for the congregation.
My first dance was before I even turned eight. I was seven years old, moving with the other girls, keeping every step perfect. And when I saw my mom smiling at me—smiling so hard—it made me happy.
Really happy, like I was finally part of something that made her proud. I did my best to perfect the steps. I heard people whispering to my mom about my graceful steps. How I followed along amazingly, for being so young.
But I made a mistake at the end.
As I was walking off, a baby dropped their bottle. I picked it up before stepping off the stage. Thought I was being helpful.
Instead, I got in trouble.
Scolded by the teacher. And later—scolded by my mom.
When we got in the car, I braced myself. I thought the yelling would start the second the door shut. Maybe even the backhand. I clenched my hands and my laps, gritted my teeth and closed my eyes.
"Hey." Her voice sharp as she got my attention. She caught my eyes in the rearview mirror.
"It's not a big deal," she said, "You did good. Don't worry about it. You learned, right? You know now that's not what you're supposed to do. Try to remember that."
My throat tightened. I swallowed and nodded.
"Yes, ma'am."
No yelling. No cursing. No hitting. Just those words: you did good.
And you don't understand how much that meant to me.
I felt a bloom of warmth shoot through me. My chest lightened. My whole body lit up.
She said I did good.
She told me not to worry about the small misstep.
She said I did good.
She said I did good?
She said I did good!
You don't understand how much that meant to me. I felt like I could take on the world.
My first compliment.
And that's why Christianity became such a big part of me.
Because when I was seven years old, the only time my mom ever smiled at me, ever praised me, was in church.
I had to do my best to stay committed and follow every rule in the Bible, even if she didn't.