Table of Contents

STORIES BY NIKKI ELIZABETH GROSS

Saving Me ................................................................................................................... 1

Broken ...................................................................................................................... 11
















GROSS


1
Saving Me

Pale pink lines. Pearl white lines. My skin is no longer a Caucasian blanket covering
muscle and bone. Its become a canvas.
I sit in a small corner office that overlooks a loud main avenue of my
neighborhood. The walls are bare except for a cheesy painting of a beach. The
only light is coming from a small desk lamp and whatever sunshine seeps
through the dusty vertical blinds. Thank God it isnt night yet. Across from me is
a desk and a woman. An odd woman, may I say, with short brown hair that
curls perfectly like a childrens slide at a playground. Her 1980s styled glasses
hook over ears that hold weird earrings. Theyre big and bright. They remind
me of radishes. I hear the busy avenue, bustling with pedestrians and young
kids yelling; buses and car engines; honking. This office is a box; all my secrets
and innermost thoughts should be kept in here thats if I let them out. This
odd lady smiles at me. I dont smile back. Instead, I cower down like a dog
would and awkwardly pull my sleeves further down from my cardigan,
gripping the ends. Im holding them tightly in my palms.
Its okay. Take your time. Do you remember your first time? She asks.
No, I dont remember much of it. But I wont tell her that. I dont want to talk. I
shouldnt be here.
You dont want to speak No, I dont.
Our time is running out. Next time Maybe, maybe not.
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I wasted this womans time. She couldve been at home, having dinner with her
cats. I wasted my own time. I couldve been reading, out with friends, anything
else but sitting here. Its not that I dont want help with this demon that haunts
my daily life. Believe me, I do. Im just scared scared of reactions, scared of
being shunned.
Im ashamed.
This was my first of many therapy sessions. And this is how my first of many
therapy sessions went: not a single word was spoken from my mouth. I barely let the air
from my lungs sound loud. I was forced to see psychiatrist after my parents discovered old
scars and fresh wounds on my left arm. It was about time they finally noticed something
was wrong. I silently laughed to myself when they saw. This issue has been going on for so
long and now you realize, is what I thought. At the same time, I was so upset my secret was
exposed. And thats what scared me the most.
I remember that day vividly. Its one I never want to remember, but replays in the
black portion of my mind when I begin to daze out of my every day, not so eventful life.
Its an early February morning, only a month into the New Year. Im
walking to school with my best friend, Eileen. Its quite brisk; so cold that the
melted butter from my toasted bagel that had dripped onto my fingers has
frozen. It snowed only a few days ago, so the sidewalks are mostly ice; unless a
kind & considerate homeowner who doesnt want to get sued laid salt down
which isnt the case on this block. Eileen is telling me of her weekend
adventures of getting unreasonably intoxicated. Thats when I begin to zone
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out. Slowly, my mind wanders off to my weekend: the remarks and comments
from my father that further lowered my self-esteem, my first panic attack, the
safety pin to my skin. It was all too much.
Ugh, Im never drinking again. I always say hey, you okay?
She notices my face growing paler by the second. I thought only I could feel it,
didnt think itd be so visible. I tell her Im fine. She knows Im lying straight through my
teeth. How so? Because anyone who has gotten that close to me will know that the
words I am fine mean something is truly bothering me. That whatever it is, is locked
up inside and needs to get out before I go insane. Eileen and my stepsister are the only
ones who know that. No one else cares enough to notice that.
She sighs sadly for not realizing sooner, Lemme see your arm.
I finish the last bite of my now tasteless bagel. I hesitantly lay my forearm in her
hand. She lifts my jacket. Then, my sweater. The icy air swims over my arm, numbing
the fresh wounds I made the other night. It sends a shiver dancing down my spine.
Eileen didnt judge when she saw the wounds. She didnt scold me. She didnt
push me to talk. Just keep them clean, okay?
We continue to make our way down to our high school, but I need to stop.
Somewhere, anywhere. I need to sit, or lean. I need to take a breather. My legs feel
weak, detached from my body. There has to be an invisible boulder on my chest. My
hands begin to tremble, little earthquakes that can be felt from head to toe.
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I need I needa stop. I tell her breathlessly. I stand against a small black
fence for no longer than thirty seconds. I realize its almost eight and I cant be late to
my second period class anymore. My legs still feel detached. I tell them to move.
Left. Right. Left. Right.
They begin to buckle.
Black out.
I wake up only a few minutes later, but my frantic mother is already at the
scene. Eileen mustve called her. I tell her over and over that Im perfectly okay to go to
school. My still pale face says otherwise. Shes convinced Im ill and may be dehydrated.
No, mom, no! Thats not it! Im fine! Just let me go to school! Shes not hearing it. She
begins to talk about going to urgent care. I start to panic.
Black out.
Im awakened by an unfamiliar voice. A womans. Shes not from around here.
As my eyes start to focus, Im drawn to the stretchy rubber ribbon and an IV bag in the
womans hand. Shes a nurse. I know what to do. Without hesitation, I give her my right
arm.
Ah, no good veins. Left arm try. She says with a Jamaican accent. I panic yet
again.
She rolls up my sleeve.
My heart punches my chest. Hard.
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5
Her eyes widen as she analyzes when she sees.
Harder.
Oh, my. Whats this?
Even harder.
Whats what? My mother asks curiously.
I snap. Its nothing! I scream as I pull down my sleeve. I jump off the hospital
bed, put on my shoes and speed walk out. I need air, I cant breathe in here.
They know. They all know. They know I cut.
Im back in my psychiatrists tiny, bare walled office. Its now my fourth visit. The
streets seemed quieter this time, possibly because my mind is so loud. I am bursting with
secrets to let out because someone is finally here to listen and not judge me. She greeted
with me a smile and invited me into her office. Im still scared. And I think she can see the
fear scribbled and etched across my entire face.
You dont trust me, do you? She finally said after a five minute silence. I stopped
looking down at the floor and fiddling with my clothes. She took me by surprise. Her voice
echoed, not only in the room, but in my ears. I could hear the silence being broken,
shattered by her six words and crashing to the floor. I looked her right in the eyes. I said
No in my head a bunch of different times, making sure it doesnt escape my mouth with
an attitude.
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Nno. No, I dont. I stuttered. I dont trust her. Shes so new to me, shes a stranger.
Why would I trust her? Better yet, why should I trust her?
She gently smiled at my response. Why is she smiling?
Is there any specific reason you dont trust me? She said so nicely, it makes it hard
not to answer. I stared at her. I held my sleeves again. Every time I am in this office, every
time I am in this chair, my reflex is to grab the ends of my sleeves and pull them down as far
as they can do, completely wrapping my fist inside the material. I argued with myself for a
few seconds, debating if I should answer her or not.
Uh-uh I muttered, barely opening my mouth to speak. Just dont. Her pad is
lifted slightly and the pen in her right hand scribbles. Only a few words. I started to believe
that was a trick question.
I quit staring at the notepad and her scribbling hand, and began to fidget with my
iPod in my hoodie pocket. Its not an old iPod, but it sure does feel that way. Just to keep my
mind clear and look occupied, I ran my fingers over its edges and over the indent on the
back case. The case used to be shiny and smooth; now, its covered in scratches and stains
and dents from the many falls and many places its been.
Keeping my mind clear only helped so much until I started thinking about my music.
Started to think it what ways its saved me, in what ways its helped me. I noticed her eyes
are on me again. She wants me to talk. She saw my iPod peek out of my hoodie pocket as I
fidgeted with it.
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Youre a music junkie, huh? Carry that around everywhere you go. It looks warn
out. She smiled. Is this her way of making small talk? Because, if it is its kinda working.
She just brought up my most beloved possession and favorite topic of all time. Itll be hard
for me to remain quiet.
Yeah. Its pretty beat up. I dont leave my house without it. I quietly said, looking
down at it.
Music can be a great help. It has a way of completely altering our mood. Amazing,
isnt it? Shes eager to get me talking more. Music is the only thing that helps us feel like
were not alone when we think we are. Ever notice when youre happy, you listen to upbeat
songs like the old NSYNC and Backstreet Boys to bring back good memories? And when
youre sad my God, the songs you could cry to. No, I didnt notice that. But come to think
about it, shes right. This odd woman with radish looking earrings knows what shes talking
about. May I see? She held out her hand for my iPod.
I hesitated, but I handed her my iPod. I figured you can learn a lot about a person
just by their taste in music. If she saw what I liked, she wouldnt bother me with questions
anymore. She turns on my iPod. Hm, Believe in Me by Demi Lovato Its on repeat. Why?
And the questions return. I completely forgot I left it on repeat from the night before.
Im at a diner with my father. Its the first time Im seeing him after our
fight a few weeks ago. Im trying very hard not to make things awkward, asking
him about his day and how his Rottweiler, Rocky, is. Hes giving me one word
answers and it is driving me insane. I didnt want to be here in the first place,
but Im trying to be the bigger person and make things right.
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The silence is killing me, eating me alive slowly. Ugh, cant this night just
end.
Why dont you call me, huh? You dont show me any respect
whatsoever. He finally says. I knew this was going to happen.
Im not a child anymore. You need to give respect to earn it, dad That
set him off.
So what? I have to answer to you? Fuck outta here. Rachel wouldnt
think about answering her mother that way. Your stepsister has more respect
for me than you do.
Thats all I need to hear. Thats all I need: to be compared to my
stepsister. I am always compared to her. I love that girl so much. She was my
best friend before our parents got together, but thanks to my dad, Im starting
to hate her more every day. My throat goes dry and my hands turn into tight
fists under the table.
Youre not responsible, youre not mature. Rachel has a job, goes to
school, comes home and helps clean & cook for her mother. You dont do any of
that. Whats wrong with you?
With each word, I feel like Im getting kicked in the stomach. Each kick
drastically lowers my self-esteem. I can feel it. How does he know Im not
responsible or mature? He doesnt take the time out to see me every other day.
He doesnt know who his daughter has become, the woman I am.
GROSS


9
My fisted hands unravel and I begin to scratch the skin of my wrist with
my nails. Im clenching my jaw shut to stop words from spewing out of my
mouth. This helps to choke back tears.
Whats your major now, huh? Yknow, since you quit nursing. Youll
never get a job with anything else. Youre probably going to live under your
mothers roof the rest of your life. Rachel is still in nursing.
I feel like screaming. Just standing on the table, screaming in his face I
dont care what Rachel is doing! I can only imagine it. I ask him to take me
home. I lost my appetite.
I enter my apartment, slowly descending down the stairs, and turning
left into my mothers room. I kiss her good night and head to my room. I shut
the door. My urge to hurt myself is at its all-time high. Ive never felt so low, so
humiliated. His words are replaying in my head. I begin to pace my room. My
face is hot. I feel like a cartoon with steam coming from my ears. I open my
laptop and press play on iTunes. Its automatically on shuffle and its loud.
I search my desk for my secret box, filled with sharp objects. I take it out
and slide down my bedside to the floor. I open it slowly, breathing heavily from
anger. What do I want to use tonight? A pin? A broken mirror piece? A first aid
scissor? A tiny razor from a pencil sharpener?
I choose the pin. Im smart enough to sterilize it with a lighter, make
sure I dont get any kind of infection. Im staring at it. My anger is starting to
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blind me. As I slowly lower the pin, I hear the opening verse for Believe in Me
by Demi Lovato. Its never caught my attention before this moment.
IM LOSIN MYSELF, TRYIN TO COMPETE WITH EVERYONE ELSE, INSTEAD OF JUST
BEIN ME. DONT KNOW WHERE TO TURN. IVE BEEN STUCK IN THIS ROUTINE. I NEED TO
CHANGE MY WAYS INSTEAD OF ALWAYS BEIN WEAK
I drop the pin. I just sit and listen.
I DONT WANNA BE AFRAID. I WANNA WAKE UP FEELIN BEAUTIFUL TODAY AND
KNOW THAT IM OKAY 'CAUSE EVERYONES PERFECT IN AN UNUSUAL WAY. YOU SEE, I JUST
WANNA BELIEVE IN ME
There is someone out there who knows how I feel. I pick up the pin and
put it in the box. I push my box under my bed for now. I turn around and press
Repeat One on iTunes.
Im conflicted if I should tell her why. I really wanted to. Last night, for the first time
in years, something stopped me from hurting myself. I tried to put the proper words
together in my head before I speak. I took the headphones out from my pocket, untangled
the impossible little knot and handed them to her.
Listen to the song. Then, Ill explain. She took the headphones from my hand and
plugged them in. She pressed play. I instantly heard the beginning piano start. I sang the
words in my head.
Three minutes and forty one seconds later, she shut my iPod off and handed it back
to me. Thats a beautiful song.
GROSS


11
I smiled at her for the first time since Ive met her. Its more than just that. Its
Fear grips a hold of my vocal cords. I swallowed hard in hopes that fears hand loosens up. I
swallowed once more. Its inspirational. Someone knows how I feel.
Well, how do you feel? She asked hopefully. She wants me to trust her. I want to
talk. Things have been deep inside my soul for way too long, causing me way too much pain
that I can handle alone. I wanted to trust her.
This
I pulled up my sleeve and show her my scars, my new wounds, my healing ones.
started when I was eleven. I want to stop
Her hand touched mine. She was holding it in hers.
We can do that.







GROSS


12
Broken
Donna isn't wearing those big, bright, radish-looking earrings. Today, they remind
me of white sunflowers with their huge, dark center. I'm in the same office I've always
come to, the one in the corner of the two-story building. It also sits on the corner of a busy,
main avenue of Brooklyn. The light in this room is always the same, too: seeping sun rays
and whatever light the overused desk lamp gives off. Donna's glasses hang around her neck
on a beaded chain. I'm here at the same time, twice a week, so the busy avenue below is
never quiet. Its the same ol bustling pedestrians, same junior high kids yelling to their
friends, the buses that carry the kids and the buses that carry the ones without cars,
engines and honking. She sits and waits for an answer patiently. She's always patient with
me. It's really nice of her. I often feel I waste her time since majority of it is me arguing with
myself whether or not I should let that secret out in this office, or as I like to call it, the
secret box. My eyes are never on her when I think of this. I feel hers on me, though; she
watches me, but not weirdly. She watches my mannerisms, where my eyes go, how I fidget.
It all goes down in her little book. I don't mind anymore. I just stare at the cheesy painting
of the beach. I stared at this stupid painting a thousand times since entering the secret box.
It's an oil painting, I'm pretty sure of it.
"Yeah, I was." My heart is speeding, punching its way through my chest.
"Just once?"
I snicker at the question.
"So not just once"
She wants me to explain. "Do you remember the first time?"
I look at her with a smirk.
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13
"Why do you always want me to recall the first time if there's been many?" I'm really
just curious. It's always the first time. What about the second time? Or the tenth?
Hundredth?
"You're right. Then, explain any time. What happened?"
I told my mother "no." That's where it started. I don't know why I said
no to her, I don't know what she asked me to do. I just know I said "no." She
started ranting about how ungrateful I am as a daughter and how I have
deceived her by going out with my father every weekend and on Wednesdays
for ice cream. "You don't do that with me, Nikki! Why? Don't you love me? No,
you don't. It's always daddy. You always want daddy. WELL, DADDY LEFT US.
HE LEFT YOU." I try so hard not to listen. I hold my ears shut, hands cupped
over them for a bit. Then, I put my fingers in my ears as she continues to tell me
daddy left me. I push my fingers further into my ears. I could still hear her
screaming. That's when I scream on top of my lungs. "BE QUIET! STOP IT!"
Everything went silent after that, but the atmosphere changed. I could feel the
shift, from angry to livid. My mother's face turns red. Her chest is rising and
falling hard. I stand still. I know I shouldn't have done that. "How dare you"
Its going to happen. I run to my room, but I hear her behind me. I slam my door
hard; it falls off its hinges. That door was supposed to be my protector. I stand
in my room, staring at where a door should be, to see my mother directly in
front of me with a brown wooden door on the floor in front of her. She climbs
over it. I brace myself for each slap, each punch, and each kick I might receive.
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I stop talking, but not because I'm choking back tears or anything of the
sort but because I'm scared. Retelling this story for the first time to ears that'll
listen and not judge me or my mother is bringing back the fear I felt when I was
eight.
"You were eight and you broke a door?" Donna says in astonishment.
"Imagine you were me. I may have been only four foot-something and sixty-
something pounds, but if you had a grown-ass woman running after you to beat whatever
life is left inside of you out wouldn't you break it?" She nods and the movement of her
head makes the white sunflowers hit the sunlight and shimmer.
"Did she hit you or did the door distract her?"
Her long, burgundy nail scratches the side of my face while she wraps her hand
around my long, strawberry blonde ponytail. She drags me by my hair over the
door. I try not to make a sound. She moves me into her room, so our neighbors
don't hear what's about to happen like they have before. That room used to be
a safe haven for me. I'd run into it when it would thunder outside, and crawl
onto the bed to sleep in between my parents. But now, it's become a dungeon of
terror. I would tell myself this room is where I'm going to die. She continues to
drag me to the bed as I do my best to ground my feet to the floor with my hands
on my ponytail, trying to loosen her grip. She's screaming. She's cursing. But I
can't make it out. I can only feel the heat at the edges of my ears; my heart's
beating inside them. Theres a harsh sting on my head. I'm crying and my tears
are just as hot as my face. She throws me by my ponytail onto the bed. I land
face down. Her comforter is full of spring stripes: pastel blue, pink, yellow. I try
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to think of those colors while gasping for air and massaging my scalp. She flips
me over. My little eight year old body is already limp. How her scrawny arms
managed to lift my deadweight, I'll never know. She holds me down. I purposely
look her in the eyes as she's screaming. Perhaps my blue eyes filled with water
and redness would make her stop. She punches me in the jaw. My eyes didn't
help. By now, her screams are completely muffled by my heart in my ears. I
can't hear anything. Her nails are digging into my upper left arm. I turn away
from the slap and look to the rest of the bed. The stripes are helping her hold
me down; her weight pushing me into the bed. The stripes become my shackles.
They're keeping me there. I feel her nails on the back of my neck now. My crying
and my screaming begin again. The things in her room get out of focus: the TV,
her closet, the bureau, the back-scratcher my dad used to use, the light in the
hallway. In seconds, my breathing comes back and things focus again. Her
punches stop hurting.
As I pause to recall the rest of the beating, Donna clears her throat, a signal she's
about to speak. She does it every time. "I know you're not finished speaking, but you said
you told yourself that room would be the place where you would die. Well, you didn't die.
You're here. That is something; that's strength. You had enough to get through."
I look at her with a polite smile. "No, I died there. My body is here. I'm trying to
revive whatever's left in me."
She looked at me in way she's never looked at me before. It reminded me a bit of the
time she told me that we, her and I, could stop my self-harm. But instead of hope in her
face, there was sadness.
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I can only hear a few words: fuck, bitch, father, love. Those are the words my
ears would let me pick up in between each milli-second before the next
heartbeat. I listen to move my attention from the bony fingers hitting my
cheekbone and jaw to the beat: its pulse, its rhythm, its life. I was sick of this
happening. I was sick of laying limp afterwards. I was sick of the "I'm so sorry's"
and the "I won't do it again!" I wanted a mother. This wasn't a mother. Mothers
don't hit their children like this. I start to get angry. While her hands are by my
throat again, her body directly on top of mine, my adrenaline starts to peak.
The anger must've set it off. My hands grasp her frail wrists. I begin to move her
hands away from me with all my might. I get so far before she hits my face to
stop me from fighting back. My legs are limp, hanging off the bed. She's
distracted. I concentrate of moving my legs to slip under her, so my shins are
against her stomach. I've had enough. My body has to grow still; it can't take
this anymore. I feel the sting of her palm against my hot cheek once more.
That's when I kick her as hard as I can. I kick her once. She comes back at me. I
kick her again, harder this time. She gets thrown back about five feet, her back
slamming against the closet door. I sit up, leaning on my forearms, looking at
her. She's slouched over, holding her left side. Her back has made an indent on
the brown wooden door. "What'd you what'd you do?" She's crying. She can't
move. "I'm sorry, mom! I'm sorry! But you were hurting me." She's out of
breath, probably from all the energy she put into beating me and from the blow
to her ribs. "I think it's broken. You broke it. You broke my rib."
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"I'll never get the sight out of my mind. It's hard to explain, and the feelings were too
intense for an eight year old to have." I try to hold back a very, very slight smile.
She catches it.
"You're not sorry, are you?" She's completely into this story now; her little book and
clipboard are on her lap. The book is closed. The clipboard lay flat. Her clicky pen doesn't
have the ink tip out.
"Not really. I mean, I kinda am I broke my mom's fucking rib, for Gods sake. But,
am I sorry I did it? No. That broken rib saved me two months of beatings because she
couldn't move certain ways." I look away, my eyes lower. I start to feel small waves of guilt
overcome me, the same waves that came over that day. "I wish I knew then what I know
now. I wish I understood then."
Donna clicks her pen and lifts her book. She scribbles before she looks up at me,
"What do you know now?"
Wait, I never told her about this? I could've sworn I mentioned this. What the fuck?
"I never told you my mom is a recovering drug addict?"
"No, not once. That would explain her behavior toward you when you were a child."
She scribbles again. I never spoke about my mom's addiction to over-the-counter and
prescription pills, but I guess this'll be my chance.
"It started when my dad left, when they got separated."
It was summer, August of 1999. We had moved into this house about two years
ago. My parents call me in from my room. I throw my PlayStation controller
down; they just messed me up and I fell to my death in Toy Story. They tell me
to sit. No, not in my usual seat. My mom's sitting there. I'm sitting at the "head
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of the table," the seat my dad usually sits at. My table is draped with a plastic
green table cloth, the kind that makes your arms sweaty if you lean on it for too
long. I can't remember how they told me; I just remember seeing my dad cry for
the first time. I didn't know what a divorce was. I didn't know what that meant
for me. My seven year old mind tries to find a definition for this word. I give up
quickly. Whats that? My father lays his forearms on the table, and laces his
fingers. He looks down, then at me. Its when mommies and daddies live in two
separate houses and don't talk to each other. The next day, I watch as my dad
hauls black suitcases to his beat up, grey 1991 Dodge Spirit. He throws each
suitcase in the trunk and backseat without breaking a sweat. He kisses my head
and says he'll see me on the weekend. From that moment on, my house was
never the same.
Donna smiles. "I guess this is where your mother became addicted to the pills?"
My dad was abusive. Not towards me, and not physically toward my mother;
but he certainly was emotionally, verbally, mentally - the "not-noticeable-on-
skin" ways. I didn't know this at seven, at eight. Hell, I didn't know this until I
turned fourteen. He hates women. He always wanted a perfect housewife who
would listen to his every command, clean, raise his children. But no woman, or
man, on this planet is perfect and he didn't like that very much. Before he left
for work in the wee hours of the morning, he'd rip a tiny piece of toilet paper off
from the roll and hide it behind the toilet, behind the garbage can and in other
places. He would come home from work to check if it was still there, and that's
when he'd begin to yell at my mother for not cleaning and not being a good
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wife. My mom became sick with worry which caused severe migraines. To get
rid of the migraines, she'd take basic over-the-counter medication. The
migraines still didnt vanish after two pills. So, she'd take another two pills. And
if it still didn't go away? She'd take another two. Soon, she was taking handfuls.
"Were you ever there when she did this or did you just hear about it as you became
old enough to understand?" From the moment I started talking about the divorce til now,
Donna's pen hasn't stopped moving. I'm surprised I haven't told her any of this before,
considering this is where my self-esteem, trust and self-harm issues stem from. How could I
leave such information out?
It went from over-the-counter Tylenol and Excedrin to prescription bottles. I'd
catch my mom opening an orange bottle with a white childproof cap by the
kitchen sink. She'd bounce the bottle into her left hand and the little white pills
would crash together, sounding like the maraca I used in my school play earlier
in the year. She would slam the bottle down to the right of the sink, turn on the
water and cup her left hand to her mouth. She'd swing her head back violently,
as if some invisible person had upper-cut her jaw, while holding the counter
with both hands. The dim light from the kitchen window made it easier to see
her swallow: her head back, exposing her Adam's apple, how it protruded
outward then quickly went back into place again. That's when her head would
violently swing in the opposite direction, looking downward in disappointment,
in failure. Her head would hang there a little bit before she took a cup from the
drying board and filled it with tap water. She'd only take one sip.
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"This happened often; every day, multiple times a day." My heart was no longer
speeding; the fear I had earlier was gone. Someone knew the truth. Someone listened to me.
It felt great.
Donna looks at me, slowly shaking her head. "Each session, you tell me something
about your childhood. But none of these things are even remotely happy."
I realize that every memory that still lives in me and randomly haunts me aren't the
memories of my entire family and I in Pennsylvania on Memorial Day weekend or during
Christmas, in Gramma and Grampa's house, opening gifts and screaming with excitement
that we got the toy we want. The memories that come back and are very well alive are the
ones of the screams, the beatings, the drugs, the tears, and the pain. "She doesn't
remember any of this. Not one thing. I told her once that she's beat the shit out of me, and
she denied it. She said she only hit me once. She has no recollection of it"
"Drugs damage one's brain. In this case, it was memory. She probably had no idea
she was even doing it."
She may have had no idea, but what about me? I can recall every little thing. Donna
shuffles the pages in her little book. I watch as her eyes scan the page. She's looking for
something she wrote down about me.
"Your mother would drag you into her room so your neighbors wouldn't hear
again which means they did before. Did they ever help you?"
I nod. "Of course! They called ACS. Any decent person would have; it was impossible
to ignore. Those walls were paper thin. I snicker in sarcasm. Well, that changed a lot.
Did it? Donna didnt catch my hint of sarcasm.
Psht, no.
GROSS


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