Warning: there is abuse in this chapter, so please read at your own risk.
I suppose the earliest memory I have is when my father held me in front of mirror. I had to be about two or three years old, waving a red fist in the air as I gazed in awe at my reflection. I can't really recall myself though, just my father, tall and slim at the time with dark hair and the foggiest green eyes.
In fact, that's one of the only memories I have of him since he passed away when I was four. Rumors say that he was mugged and refused to give up his bag or that he witnessed the wrong thing at the wrong time. Either way, the result was the same: two bullets to the head and one in the chest.
I don't have many fabulous memories of my mother either, just the occasional high-five and whooping cheer at a dance recital or for a decent joke. My father's death was extremely hard for my mother, and each day it had driven her slightly more insane. In fact, she snapped in late winter of my ninth year, laying her hands on me for the very first time. As the years went on, her violence progressed, but never to the point of leaving me severely injured.
That brings me to today, as I brush through the golden hair inherited from my mother and stare at the haunting gray-green eyes from my father. Plaiting my hair quickly, I bite back a laugh at the thought of how perfect my life seems. I'm a pretty popular girl; almost always allowed over at anyone's house, great grades, practically professional dancer, always dressed extremely nicely and it doesn't hurt to have a prettier than average face. Hell, my mother is a great actor, I remember when I was around 11, how CPS was called and an investigation occurred- more than once I should add- and nothing happened except my favorite teacher being suspended for 'false accusations'.
I grab my white book bag and slide it over my shoulder, before pulling on my white-on-white Converse All Stars and slipping out my bedroom door. I hear the voices of some famous TV show hosts seeping from the door at the end of the hall, signaling that my mother is awake.
"Good-bye Mom! I'll see you around 3," I call with forced enthusiasm as I sidle down the stairs, only stopping to grab an apple from the fruit basket on the counter top, before heading out the door.
The school day flew by too quickly for my liking and pretty soon I found myself on the path towards my house with a group of girls who consider me a "best friend".
"Josie, are you planning to present your solo for a spot in the showcase tomorrow?" A red-head named Evie questions.
"Yeah, I've worked pretty hard on it!" I chirp, trying to ignore the look of envy in her eyes. Mother would probably lock me away if I didn't get the spot, let alone not auditioning.
"Can you tell us the song you're doing? I swear that we won't tell anyone!" Carlotta exclaims, twisting her hair around her pointer finger.
Pursing my lips, I pretend to consider the option; "Nope! I'm all about the surprise. You just have to wait until tomorrow!"
"But Josie," Another girl drawls, and I bat my eyes.
"Sorry girls, I have to head in today. Catch you all tomorrow!" I turn up my driveway and walk towards the front door, slightly relieved to escape them, slightly anxious for what's waiting for me inside.
I had failed a math test today and I had asked my teacher about doing a make-up, and he gladly informed me that a note or phone call from a parent would suffice. I've gotten pretty good at forging my mother's signature, so I wasn't worried at all. What bothered me was the threat my Sociology made against me: a call home for speaking in class- when it wasn't even my fault. I was just hoping I made it home before mother so I would have time to delete the message.
To most kids, these weren't big issues, but to me, it was a major one. It's sad, how I'm 16 years
old and terrified of my mother.
I unlock the door and enter the house, utterly relieved to find it silent. Just to be safe, I screech out, "Hello?"
No answer.
I mutter a quick prayer of thanks under my breath and walk towards the kitchen to grab myself a glass of water before deleting that message and doing my homework. But there leaning against the kitchen counter, tapping her acrylic nails on the granite was my mother. I shrink back into the wall, taking in her cool demeanor. Her hair was in loose waves today and she was dressed in skin-tight Levi's and an Abercrombie shirt- I'm guessing she didn't go to work today.
"Josephine, what are you doing?" She asks softly, refusing to meet my gaze.
"Just getting a drink," I say just as quietly, feeling like I'm a toddler. I set my bag on the ground slowly, refusing to take my eyes off her for a second.
"Oh, you're thirsty?" She coos, and I'm quivering now while she fetches a glass from the cabinet behind her and fills it with water from the machine in the fridge.
"Yes ma'am, it's quiet hot outside today." I whimper.
"Oh is it," My mother nonchalantly notes, swirling the water in the glass. "I received a few interesting calls today Josie,"
"O-oh, you d-did?"
"Yeah, apparently, you failed a test?"
I inwardly curse my math teacher for not letting me handle this.
"And you were disrupting the class by talking throughout the lesson?"
I stayed silent and kept my gaze down.
"Oh Josephine," My mother practically sang. "If you can talk in class, why can't you talk now?"
I shouldn't be scared of my mother. I shouldn't be scared of my mother. I shouldn't be scared of my mother. I chanted that mantra in my head multiple times, glancing longingly at the glass of water in her hands. Curse my cotton mouth.
"Oh, I almost forgot that you were thirsty," She took steps toward me now, finally meeting my eyes. "Here. Drink this,"
Mother flung the glass at me and I turned in time for it to shatter against the daisy yellow walls. I cringe and wrap my arms around myself as she advances on me while screaming.
She grabs the fruit bowl and begins pelting me with apples and oranges and bananas, while I stifle the thought of getting bruised by a fruit. She flings the bowl at me next and it catches the side of my face.
Her insults get louder and louder until she's bellowing so loudly that our neighbors probably hear and her hand smacks my face roughly.
I shouldn't be scared of my mother, is my only thought as I shove her away from me and rush towards the stairs, trembling.
"Josephine Magnolia Nathaniel, get your ass back here now!"
I stumble up the stairs and trip, cracking my chin so hard on one of them that I see black spots. I push myself up and head towards my room when mother thunders up after and locks her hand around my arm, yanking me into her. She curls her hand and digs her nails into my cheek, dragging them across it and shoves me into the stair railing. Bringing her foot back, she kicks me until I fall and all I can focus on is the blood trailing down my face from her nails.
"A-a-auditions tomorrow," I gasp, shuddering and she smirks.
"You'll find a way to hide it Josephine. You always do,"
I nod and shakily stand back up, aching all over, when the realization dawns on me.
This all out of habit and it has been since my father's death. She hits me because she's weak. Because I'm an outlet that's around. She's just scared of the emotions swirling inside her.
"You think I'm weak and scared?" My mother is livid, and I mentally hit myself for saying my thought aloud.
"I'm not you Josephine," She spits and walks toward me, but I waddle quickly to my room and lock the door. Her fists connect with my door roughly and she yells and screams for me to open it. I curl into a ball, suppressing a breakdown until the beatings stop.
I'm safe. But how much more of this can I take? I flick my light on and stare into my floor-length mirror. From the corner of my eye, down to my chin are thick, puffy scratches that are fountaining out blood and a few bruises here and there. I avoid looking anywhere else. I shut my light off and grab my phone, about to text Carlotta if I can spend the night at her place. I can't take another night here. That's when I hear it: a soft, barely audible thumping sound nearing my room. I pull up the number screen on my IPhone, just in case.
"I said open the door Josephine," My mother sings as she walks slowly. I don't know if texting 911 works, but, tonight is bad, so I quickly type:
I'm Josephine Nathaniel, 16, 840 SE Park Vista Drive, I think my mother is trying to kill me.
I figure that the message- if they can receive them- will grab someone's attention and help me, but I'm actually ashamed to admit I believe it. The police station is actually five minutes away, can they make it here in time?
How can someone who has birthed me, hate me so much?
"Josie~ Open the door." Mother sings.
"No," I squeak, tensing before rushing to shove my overfilled bookcase to block the door. I push my dresser in front of the book case to hold mother off.
"Fine then," She hisses before slamming something into my door. I see a rounded tip glinting from the light shining in from my blinds. A metal baseball bat. She slams it repeatedly in my door until she made a hole that's big enough for her to lean over.
"Come…to… Mommy…." She grunts as she wildly swings that bat around, destroying my book case and denting the dresser. I begin grabbing things around my room and flinging them at her, trying to stall her in some way. I forgot that my mom was a dancer at one point as well, as she contoured her body to squeeze through the hole in my door and across my dresser. I was in such a state of awe, I forgot why I was shaking until she slammed the bat into my shoulder.
I cry out in pain and lunge out of the way as she aimed the next swing at my head. She got off the dresser just as I slid past her and through the hole, ignoring the swing that hit my ankle. She's hot on my tail as I race towards the stairs but I'm not fast enough, because she swings again. This time narrowly missing the base of my head and hitting my shoulders, sending me flying down the stairs. My vision was spotting horribly and I felt every bump of the stair as I slid down. The front door is in my view and I see a bright glow emit from it.
Is this what death feels like?
Can I ever be forgiven for all I've done to get here? The though races through my head as I fade out.
No.