Chapter 2
It was the only time I hadn't caused a scene in front of her.
The tricycle squeaked all the way home. The stink from the slum's sewers cleared my head a little. By the time we got back, the room was pitch-black.
"Hit me," I said.
I took the thick metal rod from the side and handed it to her myself. It was thick as hell.
"I won't dodge," I said.
Every other time before this, I'd pissed her off on purpose, and when she came at me to hit me, I'd yank open the curtains. The blinding sunlight would pour in, and she'd cover her eyes in fear.
I never understood why.
Now I did.
"Are you trying to ruin me for good, Claire Evans?" Mom shouted.
"Other than bringing you into this world without your permission, what do I even owe you?" Mom demanded.
She brought the metal rod down across my back. I let out a muffled groan from the pain.
I didn't dare move.
My body was covered in bruises and marks from being beaten. Ever since I was little, this was how things had always been between us.
The more she hit me, the more I ran.
The more she ignored me, the more I acted out, like I had to make sure everyone noticed me.
"I'm sorry," I said.
I groaned through the pain, one hand braced on the floor, then forced myself to straighten my back again.
"Your rapist father ruined my life, and now you want to ruin it too, is that it?" Mom cried.
Her voice cracked with sobs. She threw down the rod and kicked me hard in the stomach.
I curled up from the pain.
But I kept repeating the same words.
"I'm sorry," I repeated.
"What's the point of being sorry? If you've got the guts, then go die!" Mom screamed.
She screamed hoarsely,
"Why do you have to do this to me? Do you know how terrified I am of cameras? Why do you have to hurt me like this..." Mom sobbed.
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
She kept crying, and I kept apologizing. By the time we were both exhausted, she had curled up in a corner, too scared to come out.
I forced myself to stand, cleaned the blood off in the bathroom, then went to the kitchen like always and started cooking.
Only this time, I cracked an egg into her bowl.
Bang!
Mom flung the bowl of scalding noodles onto me. Blisters sprang up on my arm at once. Before I could even react, her hands were around my throat.
In the dark, I saw her eyes shining.
"Go die! Just die!" Mom shrieked.
She only let go when I was almost out of air. I carried over my own bowl and, almost begging, asked her,
"Mom, please. Just eat one bite," I pleaded.
She froze for a second, then finally opened her mouth.
I smiled.
If this had been before, I would've fed her too.
Except every time, I'd have to force the food into her mouth while saying,
"Don't die. If you die, you won't get to see me die," I used to say.
In my memory, Mom had always been half-crazy, half-lucid. Sometimes she was clear-headed, sometimes she wasn't. But whenever she looked at me, there was always love mixed with hate.
She fought with everything she had to ignore me, and I fought just as hard to stay in front of her. I didn't want her to forget me.
If she forgot me, then I wouldn't have a mom anymore.
But today, I regretted that.
I wanted her to slowly forget me.
Only after making sure she was sound asleep did I dare turn on the light. There was still soup on her face, so I took a towel and gently wiped it clean.
"Mom, why didn't you say anything?" I whispered.
I turned my head away, eyes full of tears, scared they'd fall and splash onto her face.
"And why did you give birth to me in the first place? If you hadn't, none of this mess would've happened," I asked.
"Maybe they were right. Maybe there's something rotten in my blood. Maybe I never should've been born," I whispered.
I turned off the light and curled up beside her.