I hate her! She is so stupid! Yeah, one dish isn’t washed and look what she does to me! A cord this time. The marks still spread deeply across my body. I hate my tears. I figure one day I’ll just run out of tears. What’s going to happen then? Why can’t I stop crying? It hurts so bad! My mother, no, she’s not a mother to me. She’s my mom. There’s a difference. A mother would treat me fair. A mom doesn’t care. She doesn’t want me so why can’t she just leave me alone? She blames everything on me. Well, guess what? I didn’t ask to be brought into this world. It’s not my fault.
One dish is left unwashed and I’m woken up by a cord slashing against my body. Some marks so deep I have to put Neosporin on them. I have got to try to stop the bleeding. Oh, it hurts so bad!
Why is that stupid girl always doing stuff like this? She looks like her daddy and she acts like him too. I hope they both rot in hell!
How many times do I have to tell her not to leave any dishes in the sink? What is the matter with her? Out of all my children, she’s the only one who does this stuff to me. Well, she’s going to pay for it because I am so sick of her thinking she can do whatever she wants! She’s going to get it. She’s going to get it bad one day.
“Miranda, come in here right now!”
“Oh, what does she want with me now?” I thought. I walked into the living room where she was sitting on the couch with a coke in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She looked at me in a deranged manner. I hate it when she does that. I silently stood there glaring back at her.
She said, “What is wrong with you girl? I told you not to leave any dishes, didn’t I?” I didn’t answer her. I didn’t want to because she would say that I was talking back to her and that would only enrage her even more.
“You’re going to get in that kitchen and take every dish out of the cabinet and wash them all over again. Then when you finish that,” She put out her shriveled cigarette in the ashtray on the side table and put her coke down next to it as she stood to begin making her way into the kitchen. I slowly followed behind her. “You can clean out the cabinets and wash them, then clean the sinks and countertops. Scrub the stove, sweep and mop this floor, then wash some walls!” She screamed. “When I come back, I want it to be finished. Do you understand me? Huh?”
I didn’t want to answer her. I refused to answer. She walked right up to me and slapped me right in my mouth. “Why can’t you answer girl?” She waited a while as tears began running down my rosy cheeks again. She turned back to face the kitchen. That’s when she began yelling and snatching open cabinet doors. She started throwing the dishes at me. I couldn’t stop the tears from coming. Why does she always do this to me?
*
As I walked through the front door after school, my mother was sitting on the couch. She beckoned for me to come to her. I wondered what I had done this time. Every time she called my name it was because I had done something wrong. I sat down on the opposite side of the couch she was sitting on. I had no desire to be near her. She got up and stood in front of me with her hands on her hips, “Your teacher called,” she said in a voice, nothing but attitude, “She said you got a low grade on one of your tests.”
That’s another thing about my mother; I get a low test grade and she always has something to say. But when my little sister, Anita, brings home failing grades, she doesn’t even get so much as spoken to about it. As I remained silent, she moved right up close to me. She was so close I could smell her breath. At this moment, I could tell you that she ate chili and hotdogs as well as had a couple of beers. That is not a stellar mix! “You always were the screwup child,” she whispered under her breath.
I bit my tongue in order to restrain myself from making a rude or vulgar comment. I felt warm blood tickle upon my tongue.
“You’re just like your stupid dad!” she screamed. “Nothing but a screw-up!” I couldn’t hold back what I had wanted to say to her for thirteen years. I jumped to my feet. My face inches from hers, my hands clenched into tight fists against my sides. I felt my fingernails begin piercing the palms of my hands. “I am not.” I replied in a very shaky but calm voice.
“Liar!” she screamed back at me, “You’re nothing but a liar!”
All I could hear were those harsh, crude words echoing in my ears repeatedly. I felt hot tears welling up in my eyes, but I refused to let this woman who called herself my mother, see me cry. “No!” I screamed back at her, “Shut up!”
I could see her eyes burning with rage. That was when I noticed her hand from the corner of my eye. It began moving up. Before I was able to realize what was happening, I felt it. I felt her cold, hard, rough hand come down against my cheek. For a moment, my cheek went numb. Then I felt the pain throughout the left side of my face. Moments later it started to feel like jelly. It was then that I began to feel warm blood trickle down my cheek from where her nails had dug into my skin and cut me. I could still feel the tears at the brim of my eyes. This is it. I can’t take it anymore. I didn’t realize that my hand was coming up and back down against my mother’s cheek. I had smacked her back! I couldn’t believe I did that. I never intended to hit my mother back.
But it was to late. Still stunned by what I had just done, my mother began thrashing her arms violently out at me. I was trying hard to block her hits. I was screaming for her to stop. She couldn’t hear me because she was screaming and yelling back at me. I could only guess that her hands had gotten tired of hitting me because I remember her picking up anything she could find quickly or get her hands on. She was throwing different objects at me.
I could hear my nine-year-old sister, Anita, screaming and crying because she was scared. Her screams seemed so distant, but I remember hearing her plead, “Mommy. No mommy. Stop! Leave Miranda alone, she didn’t do anything this time.”
Her words wouldn’t help. My mother was on a mad rampage. She was trying to kill me. My greatest fear in life was always to be murdered by my mother. Now, my fear had turned into real life. This was the moment I really thought would be my last day on this earth. She was really going to kill me! She’s crazy! She’s going on this mad rampage. What’s going to happen if she runs out of things to throw? What will she do to me?
Oh no. I can’t breathe. Oh no! The terror in her eyes. The hate. So much hate in those once pretty, light brown eyes. She was choking me! I hadn’t felt her thin fingers slip around my neck. I’m going to die in a few more seconds. No! I can’t die now!
It was like I was outside of my body watching myself. Seeing my mother’s hands around my neck. Seeing her shake me causing my head to bounce back and forth. Then I began to fight for my life. I could see my arms flailing wildly as I tried to get her to release me. Then I saw my arms fall limp at my sides. My mother’s hands were still around my neck. I saw myself fall lifelessly to the floor. My mother fell to her knees and started to cry. Everything went black.
Sirens sounded. I seemed astounded. There were cops everywhere. What happened? I could hear a woman cop talking to me. She was trying to comfort me, but I couldn’t make out what she was saying. Not for the life of me.
For the life of me. Am I alive? All the noise surrounding me began to fade out. I saw her in handcuffs. Is she going away from me forever? Are they going to let her hurt me anymore? Will she be out in a few days or in a few hours? She’s going to come back to kill me because I didn’t die this time. I felt sharp pains throughout my body as I tried to stand up. I’ve got to get out of here!