I shook my head. “No.”
“Then why would you hang one above your bed? You want to leave me, don’t you? You can’t wait to leave me all by myself.” The leather strap followed her words, tearing at my body before I could protect myself. It snapped across my back like a streak of fire.
“No, Mother,” I pleaded. “I don’t want to leave you. I promise,” I cried out as the harsh strap found my bare legs. My flesh tore away with every strike, leaving white-hot, painful, bloody contusions. “Mother, I love you.”
She stopped in mid-swing, gasping from her anger-induced exertion. “You promise you won’t leave me.”
“I promise,” I answered. It took all my strength to stop myself from whimpering as I spoke. Crying would only antagonize her again. Mother did not like to see tears. “I love you,” I continued. The words felt hollow and disingenuous, but they were what she needed to hear. It was more my fault anyway. I should have remembered to take the picture down.
All of Mother’s anger evaporated as quickly as it had surfaced. She pulled me in for a remorseful, tight hug. Inside I was screaming in pain as her arms circled the open wounds on my back, but I couldn’t show it. I had gotten what I deserved.
“I love you too. I wish you wouldn’t make me punish you,” she said, pulling awa
y.
“I’m sorry. I’ll take the sun down.”
She nodded, refusing to look again at the offending scrap of paper. “You understand why it upsets me?”
“I do. It was wrong. I shouldn’t want anything to do with something that could hurt me so severely,” I said, parroting the words I’d heard hundreds of times before.
She leaned over and kissed my forehead. “Good girl. Go take your shower,” she said, shooing me toward the bathroom. “I think an extra five minutes will be okay,” she added, smiling brightly like nothing had happened.
I responded to her smile instantly. Mother was a different person when she was happy. “Thank you,” I said, closing the curtain behind me.
As I stripped out of my pajamas, I could hear her footsteps walking up the hollow staircase, followed by the sound of the dead bolts locking on the basement door. I switched on the shower and turned the water to a lukewarm setting. I braced myself before stepping inside, knowing that the water wouldn’t feel much better on my tender skin than the leather strap that left me scarred. By now you would think I’d be used to the pain. Only when my head was under the flow of water did I allow the tears I’d been holding back to fall freely. In the shower they were not tears, but merely water from the showerhead, lost among the other drops of water combined with blood that circled the drain before disappearing forever. I couldn’t cry for long though, and use up my precious minutes of shower time. The shower was one of the few times I felt like I was somehow in control. I got to pick whether the water was hot or cold. How much soap or shampoo to use. As long as I stayed within Mother’s allotted time, I was the queen of the shower.
My mind wandered elsewhere while I scrubbed my skin that felt rough to the touch, calloused and scarred several times over after years of punishment. I never dwelled on the scars or what I had done to deserve them. The only important thing was that Mother had forgiven me. My living quarters were once again peaceful when I left the bathroom. Mother worked nights while I slept and then she would sleep during the day while I did schoolwork and read. She used to spend more time with me when I was younger, serving as the teacher for my elementary homeschooling years. As I got older I did the majority of my lessons on my own and she only checked my work. Any questions I had, I saved for dinnertime when she and I could discuss them. As for my spare time, I usually read or listened to music as long as Mother approved of my choices. Anything I knew about the outside world I learned through the countless books I’d read. My own memories of life outside my room were hazy and in most circumstances, gone.
I dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, placing my neatly folded pajamas at the foot of my bed. The bloodstains that covered them would be painful reminders of my transgressions that would taunt me until Mother saw fit to launder them. She had obviously come back down while I was showering, because my drawing and the two tacks were gone. In a way I felt sad, but there was no point in grieving over a piece of paper. It was nothing. Well, it ruined my streak of good behavior, so I guess it was something after all. Now I had to start over again.
I dolefully worked at conjugating verbs and then finished my Civil War paper before lunch. My goal was to have more time to read. Mother had never been one to buy me toys when I was younger; reading had become my biggest luxury. As long as I did my schoolwork and kept my living quarters tidy, I could have all the time I wanted. One entire wall of my room was lined with bookshelves. Mother had brought me cartons and cartons of books over the years and I devoured every one. It didn’t matter what genre they were. They were my window to the outside world. Books fed my dreams at night and gave me the freedom of imagination.
My current read was about a girl who lost her memory. It had suspense and intrigue with a little romance mixed in. I enjoyed trying to solve the puzzle even though I didn’t want to spoil the surprise at the end. The main character had amnesia, which in some strange way was something I envied. Being able to forget your troubles sounded appealing. I also liked the portions of the book that took place in a school. Since I’ve never been allowed to leave the basement, I had never interacted with anyone my own age. No school dances. No parties. No sleepovers. Nothing. It made me wonder if I could relate to normal people. When I closed my eyes I could almost imagine walking through the halls, chatting with my very own friends. Maybe I would have a boyfriend or maybe I would even be a cheerleader.
I looked up at the piece of plywood that covered up the only window in the room. A smile tugged at my mouth, but I made myself return back to my book and the world that belonged among the pages.
3
MIA
I THREW off my covers, happy to have my head still free of the darkness from the other night. Judging by the morning sunlight peeking through the blinds, I was already running behind. I rolled over to glance at the clock, seeing that I had barely enough time to get ready before Jacob left for school. He would wait for me, but I didn’t want him to be late. I showered in record time and pulled on my favorite jeans and shirt before grabbing my backpack and heading downstairs.
Jacob was standing at the kitchen counter with his cereal bowl tipped up to his mouth, slurping the rest of his milk. For whatever reason, that noise had always grossed me out. “God, Jacob. Get a straw or something,” I said, wrinkling my nose as I popped two packages of Pop-Tarts into the four slots of the toaster.
“Ahhhh,” Jacob said, wiping his mouth with his arm before placing his bowl in the dishwasher.
“Could you be any more of a slob?” While I waited for my Pop-Tarts, I grabbed a bottle of chocolate milk from the fridge. Normally I’d snag a piece of fruit too, but I knew I wouldn’t have enough time to eat everything during the drive.
Jacob watched in amusement as I gathered my belongings, trying to balance my breakfast and my backpack together. “Isn’t the older brother supposed to do all the eating in the house?”
I smirked at him. “Don’t be jealous,” I said, stacking one strawberry Pop-Tart on top of a blueberry one before taking a big bite. I liked mixing flavors.
Jacob rolled his eyes, but didn’t deny my claim. He was a wrestler and had to maintain a strict diet to make weight. “So, are we going to talk about the other night? It looked like a rough one,” he said, doing me a favor by carrying my backpack.
I shrugged, glancing over at the empty chairs in the living room as we left the kitchen. “Are they awake?”
“Yeah. Mom came down for coffee earlier. She asked about you. I haven’t seen Dad yet though,” Jacob said.