My Mother Wishes Me Dead

From the moment I could remember, my mother's eyes held poison when she looked at me.

When I was three, she forced sleeping pills into my mouth.

At five, she coaxed me to drink sugar water laced with insecticide.

But I was tough. I just wouldn't die.

When I turned seven, something clicked. I learned to fight back.

If she wouldn't let me eat at the table, I'd flip the whole thing over.

Plates shattered. Soup splattered. No one got a bite.

She'd grab a rolling pin and beat me until I rolled on the floor. I'd turn and grab her favorite, her youngest son, Aiden.

I'd punch his face, over and over.

Until he wailed and begged, his face smeared with blood from his nose.

I held my ground like that. I fought her for five whole years.

I fought until I was twelve, when a little sister came into the house.

She was a delicate, pink-cheeked little thing. Her cries were soft and thin.

Once, she wet her pants. I clumsily reached out to help change her.

My mother, Elena, charged at me like a madwoman.

She slammed me hard against the wall.

The back of my head hit the concrete with a dull thud.

She stared at me. Her eyes churned with intense disgust, and a flicker of... fear.

"What are you trying to do to my daughter?"

Her voice was sharp, like broken glass.

"You really are your rapist father's spawn! Why didn't you die with him!"

I slumped at the base of the wall. Warm blood trickled down the back of my neck.