Читать книгу No Other Choice - Florence Collymore - Страница 5

I was 8 years old. It’s been 9 years since I hold this memory. I perfectly remember every single detail from that day. If you can relate to me, I’m sorry. Understand you. It sucks. But we have to handle these problems if we want to be successful, right? We don’t need mommy issues as well as daddy issues. But the problem is I’ve already got them. Nothing in my control anymore. I’ve got so many problems because of this person. And something tells me that it’s not okay to enjoy my life only if my parents are out of my sight. But let’s already start with a problem.

Have you ever been to any sport/hobby clubs? Parents love to send their kids there. But not mine. I always begged them to send me to Art School, Music School, and so on. We had money. Enough money to live well. We are middle class. Not impressive and obviously not the reason to show off. But, damn, they didn’t wanna spend a single penny on their own children. I, 7 years old, begged my mom to send me to basketball. It lasted over 8 months. And finally, they did it. I turned 8 and was so happy like I got a ticket to Disneyland. So a friend of mine and I went to our first training. Her mom escorted us. And, honestly, it was awesome. I still love basketball, and I guess I would still play if I wasn’t 5’2. Are you kidding, God? It’s like the minimum height. No space to get lower. So obviously I wasn’t that appreciated in those whole situations but I was a kid that didn’t care about anyone’s opinion.

We actually wanted to do basketball only because of the fact that we would be able to skip school due to competitions. Spoiler: I’ve never been to a single competition. But don’t worry. I was okay. It’s not the last reason to cut myself.

I don’t want to beat around the bush anymore. So read carefully, maybe you’ll think that it’s not a reason to kill your mom. If you think so, I will cut your throat. Literally. No one has the right to beat a child. You are a grown-up. You are several times bigger than me. You are several times older than me. Shame on you, freak. I’m sorry if you can’t find an equal rival and is willing to beat a kid who can’t even handle her own emotions due to age. But it did not bother you because you are a psycho, fake mother. Damn, I still beat around the bush but I’m trying to make you even more curious. Have no idea if I did because, again, I’m not a writer.

Winter

December 10

Wednesday

I even remember the day of the week. Impressive, isn’t it? I know. I remember every day when my mom beat me in a new way. Special days.

That day I was in my room with my sister, doing homework. The doorbell rings. I’m going to see who is there. Trying to look in a peephole. Mommy. Mommy with a right hand in gypsum. You will find out later how I remembered which hand. I open her door. See her crying and do not know what to do.

“Is everything okay?”, I asked.

“Don’t ya see?”, she answered as I was drunk and couldn’t notice her.

“Why did you freeze? Bring those bags in the kitchen.”

I take the bags. They are heavy. Sister comes to help me.

“What happened mommy?”

“Try to think logically. There is ice-crusted ground outside.”

I was so naive. I thought she just talked with me. But she just laughed and after that made jokes about me. Jokes about what? About my curiosity?

“You slipped on the ground,” I said and tried to hold back tears.

At that moment she hit me in the head. I was used to it. Nothing special. But this hit showed that she certainly slipped on the ground. I laughed after that. A grown-up woman slipped on the ground. Can’t you look at what you are stepping on? Thought my curious head.

Hitting wasn’t even the worst problem. The worst problem was that I had to take care of her because of her broken arm. Others refused to do it and I had no choice. I had to cook, clean, vacuum, dress her, wash her hair. I hated her and all this stuff. My school and homework did not bother her. How was I supposed to do all this stuff when I was 8 years old? I did not know how to ride a bike. What did you then expect me to cook? Ravioli? If I made a mistake, she would hit me. If I said something wrong, she hit me. She hit me every single day. I wish I had had a tumor because of this. I would have died and no more suffering. I was 8 when I had those thoughts in my head.

That day I had practice at 4:00 AM. I packed my backpack and waited for my friend to call me while my mom was doing something noisy with some man in another room. Did my mommy think that I was not hearing anything? Did she think that I was 2 years old and would not remember it? She was moaning and screaming so hard. It wasn’t my dad. She cheated on him all the time. And beat me each time after cheating so that I don’t tell my dad. It’s her way of coping with the immoral actions she performed. Some people go to psychologists but she chose this option. I was little and had no idea why she was beating me because of what she did.

So practices, in order to escape hell, were my dream as soon as I got home from school.

This time I was even happier to get out of the apartment.

When I reached the spot where my friend and I always meet together, I was thirty-five minutes earlier. So I had to wait. It was winter. Minus fifteen degrees. Extremely cold, considering that I didn’t have a winter coat. I was wearing that spring coat for 3 years. It was a bit small for me and definitely not for that day’s weather. Lucky me, she came ten minutes earlier. But she wasn’t alone. As she told me, she came with an excellent idea. This idea was to skip basketball practice. I, as a kid who had never before even had thoughts about it, was shocked. How dare you skip basketball practice.

“But we wanted to skip school because of basketball! You don’t think clearly!”, I said.

“Yes, I know our plan! I wanted to skip only today's practice. Nobody is going to find out. We’re gonna go to the cafe instead. What do you think?”, she enthusiastically answered.

“I don’t know. It’s too risky. I don’t want my mom to beat me because of this.”

“She won’t beat you because she’s not going to know it. Nobody will tell her!”

“Are you sure?”

“Like never before!”

I agreed. I don’t know exactly why. I just thought that it would be extremely cool to go to the cafe on a weekday. I had no money though.

So we went to a local cafe and when we took off our clothes and the waitress came to us to take an order, only then I said that I had no money. My friend had some, but it wasn’t enough to order anything for two people. We apologized and left the cafe.

“Why didn’t you take the money?”, my friend asked.

“Because I am supposed to be practicing!”

“Don’t you have pocket money for situations like these? My parents always give me money if I urgently need something.”

“Sorry but no. They don’t give me money at all. Mom said that I should earn my own money already.”

“But you are in third grade.”

Cool, isn’t it?

“She doesn’t care.”

“I’m sorry. Let’s rather buy hot tea on the street. I’m sure we have enough money for two cups.

So we bought two cups of super hot tea. Want to say ahead, I don’t like tea. I hate it. But I didn’t wanna upset my friend because she was buying it, not me, and being mean and picky is bad.

I actually didn’t drink it. I split some tea each time she turned away.

But it was a good day. Definitely. I don’t spend much time with my friends because my mom doesn’t let me, so I really appreciated this opportunity.

When I got home, mom was in her room, lying in the bed. I said hi and went to my room. In a minute she called me. I was terrified. She could beat me again because I was too loud with my books.

“How was your practice?”

“Good.”

“What did you do?”

“We were practicing different techniques-”

“You weren’t at practice. You lying. Your coach called me. You didn’t show up.”

“Mom, I’m sorry. I'm so sorry. Please. It will never, I swear, will never happen again.”

“I don’t believe you.”

She stood up and my heart just tore apart into many pieces. But I didn’t run. I stood there ‘cause I know that if I had run, It would have been worse.

She grabbed my hair and with all her strength threw me on the floor, pulling me to the front door. And started beating me with her hand in gypsum. That’s how I remember which hand was broken. By the way, it was painful as never before. Roughly twenty times in the head and way more in the stomach, hands, legs. She repeated something like “For what we spend our money? You know how much money you waste. Bitch. Asshole. Slut. (Slut in 8 years old).”

Then she was hitting the door with me. And then threw me out of the apartment. The door closed. I thought my dad was at work and when he came back he would open the door. But he actually was at home. He heard everything and didn’t help me out. I was able to get home in the morning when he went to work. And instead of daddy’s love, I got a big smack in the face. Crying I got in and, lucky me, mommy was sleeping. I packed a backpack, changed my clothes, and went to school. WIthout breakfast because there was no food at home.