You're much bigger than I am. I'm even smaller than the other kids in my kindergarten class. The bigger kids beat on me. But I pay them no mind. They're not as tough as they think they are. You're fists are much stronger. They have no idea what it's like to live with you. They pull my hair and push me around. But I never cry. You always tell me people will think I'm weak if I cry. The teachers ask me questions. I'll lie for you. Only because I believe you when you tell me it will be worse if I don't. I keep waiting for someone to rescue me. The neighbors all do nice things for me, I think they pity me. They all know, you don't think they do, but they know. They won't say anything to anyone though. It makes me resent them like I resent you. They could save me, but they don't. Are they afraid of you too?
As I'm getting older my indifference is fading. I never cry anymore. I hate weekends. I'll be in the basement by myself with nothing to eat or drink. And that's if I'm lucky and you decide not to take out your frustration on me. I'd rather be alone. I found a box of matches and I've considered setting this whole place on fire. But I won't. My brother and sister are up there with you. I'll put up with you ONLY for their sake. But know this, if you EVER touch them I'll take them and run. I'll burn you down with this house. I will finally fight back. I swear it. My teachers send me to the school councilor 3 days a week now. They won't tell you the truth. They think I'm in here because my parents got divorced 2 years ago. But they know there's something else wrong. They see when I flinch if someone near me makes to sudden a move. My clothes are too small. I'm always bruised. And did you know that every day this week I've come to school with a busted lip? How long do you think they will let this go? I'm still waiting to be saved. But I'm starting to think nobody's coming for me. As more time goes on what little hope I've mustered has diminished entirely. I don't care anymore. People are stupid. Why should I care about them? My friends are discovering boys. The thought sickens me. It's your fault. He's now joined in. I'm his punching bag now too. I'm more than that. I laugh to myself when I hear him beating you. You deserve it. Now you know how it feels. But it doesn't last long. One or the other of you will leave and the one that stays home will take out tonight's fight on me. I've learned how to step out of my body now. I think about other things. Books mostly. I don't even notice when you've worn yourself out and walk away. I don't look like you. I never have. Maybe that's why you hate me? I'm still small. I have to be careful at school. There's a couple of girls there that like to hit me. But I won't fight back. Then the school would call you.
I've found new ways to feel. My wrists and arms are scarred up and down. I've started a new group of wounds. There's 360 on my left arm today. All fresh. Covered with gauze and long sleeves against prying eyes. I try to feel. Any emotion at all would be refreshing. But this is the only way. I'll substitute emotion for pain. Pain is easier than emotion anyway. It's instant. It hurts immediately, but it fades much quicker than sadness. I'll bottle up whatever I'm feeling from now on, until I can release it through pain. You complimented me on my dance recital. You cannot believe how talented I've become. Inside I laugh. I drank a bottle of Pine-Sol last night. It didn't work how I had planned so I drank 2 pots of coffee before my recital. My punishment for being caught would have been far worse than if it had worked. It was a dumb idea anyways, now every-time I clean I want to vomit. And it just re-affirms my previous thoughts that I'm just meant to suffer at your hands, until You decide when my life is over.
Don't underestimate me. You think I'm weak. I am not. Just because I was silent for years does not mean I was afraid. I am not afraid of your hands. It doesn't hurt me as much as you think it does. I will calculate and lean into the blows. It hurts your fists more than it hurts the back of my head. Go ahead, get in my face. Scream at me. I know that with enough crocodile tears you will lose interest. Although, honestly, I'd rather you just swing at me. Your words cut my heart, they make it cold, dead, and hard. I don't feel anymore. Once I had pity for you. Now there is nothing. It's empty. You are dead to me. You'll push me to the ground, beating me until I can hardly see anymore. I wont give in to the darkness, then you will think you have won. You'll kick me when I'm down. But I keep getting back up. If I wear you out first than I am the one that's triumphant here. The sweetened-stench of alcohol fills me with rage. But I can't hate you. Indifference is all I know. It's how I've survived this long. All that keeps me going is knowing that you'll not win. I have no hope. No dreams. No aspirations. You've taken it all away. But I'm still here. Still enduring the pain you inflict. Why? Is this my purpose? Why do you hate me so much? You're my mother. You're supposed to protect me. Mother? Are you listening?...