“No. Ma was the handsy one,” I replied, which didn’t seem to soothe him.
“What about when Atlas—I mean Jackson, left. Did it get much worse?” Charlie asked, looking nervous.
“Yeah, it definitely got worse, but it was a lesson I needed to learn so I could take care of myself in the future and not rely so heavily on one person. Without him as a buffer, I was the sole outlet for my parents. Not to mention, Jax was the one who had gotten me ready for school, helped me with my homework, and packed my lunch up until that point. I didn’t realize how much he shielded me until he left. I knew the neighbors or people in town weren’t ever going to help me.
“I took over some of his jobs. Paper routes and lawn mowing. In the winter, I worked at a local diner, clearing tables and washing dishes, refilling ketchup bottles and salt containers. Anything I could think of to encourage the owner to keep me around and pay me under the table. I think he took pity on me, often insisting I take food home with me after a shift. It kept me out of the house, providing regular meals and some cash. As long as I managed to stay under my parents’ radar, it was okay. For a little bit, at least.” Frowning, Charlie raised her hand. I rolled my eyes.
“You don’t have to raise your hand. Just ask.” I snorted, and Charlie shrugged.
“Your mom was a prostitute? Did she—I mean, was it happening in the trailer, where you could see it?” Charlie looked embarrassed, but I didn’t mind that she asked. I didn’t want them to make up stories in their heads. I’d rather them know the truth.
“Yes. Not always, but she started doing it more often as I got older, especially when they were low on drugs. When we were young, she would just lock us in the closet until they left. Once Jacksn was older, and I was more mobile, he would take me to play outside. After he left, once puberty hit and I looked like a teenager, she started to get jealous. That’s when she would lock me out of the trailer, not allowed to come back until she was done for the night.”
“She ever try to get you in the game?” Bash asked, red slashes on his cheek, as if asking the question was torture.
“Not specifically. There was one time when it came close.”
“What do you mean?” Charlie asked, leaning forward, looking horrified.
“It was late, I was in my bedroom, and didn’t realize she had someone over. My dad was out at a bar somewhere. He didn’t care what my mom did, as long as they had enough money by the end of the night. I woke up to a man shouting.”
Memories of that night wafted over me. The stale smell of the trailer, the way the air never moved over the darkly colored interior. The yelling voices and screeching tires. Car alarms and unknown crashes were the ambient noise for my sleep cycle. I remembered jolting awake just in time to hear enough from the room next to mine to trigger my fight or flight instincts.
“The walls were paper-thin in the trailer. I could hear every word as he berated my mother, calling her dirty and used up. He was disgusted with her, and wanted to exchange his purchase for the younger model.”
I looked up, taking in Bash and Charlie’s horrified expressions. Taking a deep breath, I rushed to finish the story, already struggling with the memories invading my senses.
“Instinct kicked in. I had very little faith that my mother would do anything to protect me, not at the expense of losing money. I grabbed what necessities I could think of and crawled out my bedroom window. I spent the rest of the night sleeping under the school bleachers.”
Thinking back, I remembered finding comfort from the bleachers and outfields at the high school. They were spots I was quite familiar with from my days scavenging trash cans for food with Jackson. In the fall, sporting and other outdoor events proved to be a gold mine for us. Abandoned hot dogs, half-fullcontainers of popcorn, and stale cupcakes filled the bins after bake sales and practices.
“I used the gym shower to get ready for school, and tried to just pretend it didn’t happen. When I got home, though, Ma was waiting. She jumped me, yelling and screaming about how I had cost her money. I was bigger than her by then, healthier and stronger. I lost it and slammed her into the wall. Told her if she ever tried that again, I’d fuck her face up so much she would never get another customer again.”
It wasn’t a moment I liked talking about. It scared me how easily the anger had turned into violence, but even more alarming was how good it felt. I grabbed her by the hair and shoved her face-first into the wall. When I let go, there was blood pouring from her nose, and her eyes were filled with shock and tinged with fear.
“The power in that moment was heady. I remember feeling invincible. The urge to keep going, to hurt her until she was on the ground unmoving, pushed at me, but I managed to rein myself in. By the time puberty hit, I had started to fill out physically. My dedication to finding at least one real meal a day was paying off.
“Compared to my mother, I looked downright robust. Her body and strength deteriorated, both of us subconsciously aware of the power shift. Up until that fateful day, I took the yelling and beatings from her because of the ingrained terror alive inside of me—an instinctual, trauma-based response to curl up and take it.
“Once I had crossed that line, physically confronting her, it became clear how easy it would be for me to return the favor. If she came at me with her fists and I decided to fight back, we knew who would win. Rather than feeling empowered, I was afraid that it would open the door for Ma to come up with crueler, more psychological ways to hurt me. Her mind was adark, festering place, rotten and delusional. I didn’t want to test my theory by sticking around more than necessary.
“We gave each other a wide berth after that. I had already gotten accepted into school, so I just spent the next few weeks preparing, stashing away cash from all the jobs I worked, plus what I had managed to steal from my parents. I left town less than a month later, and I haven’t seen or heard from them since. Any more questions?” I asked, on edge as I took in their dour expressions. I didn’t want pity. I wanted to clear the air and move forward.
“You’re so brave,” Bash said. I sighed, rubbing a hand over my face.
“I’m not. I don’t feel brave. Please don’t make me out to be some type of hero. Like so many other kids in similar circumstances, I did what I had to do. I survived. And I didn’t do it alone for a long time. I was lucky, in that regard. Jackson was the brave one, and the protector.
“I know repressing memories is not the healthiest way to deal with my past trauma. I hate even calling it that, to be honest, which I know I need to work through. I have to process all this properly, but in my own way and at my own pace,” I replied as Charlie grabbed my hand.
“You’re a badass bitch, Fiona. Even if you don’t see it that way, to me, you are brave, and you are special for so many reasons that have nothing to do with your sperm donor and his cum dumpster.” I snorted at Charlie’s lewd description, but she wasn’t done yet.
“I fucked up. I’m so sorry. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, Fee. I feel like you’ve done so much for me, and I guess I wanted to play a superhero and have a way to help you somehow. There was no reason for me to ask for the file, and no reason for me to read it instead of just talking to you. All I can do is tell you I regret it so much, and nothing like that will happen again,”Charlie said passionately before elbowing Bash, who lifted his bowed head, his eyes looking straight into my soul.
“I don’t have the words. I can’t think of a way to adequately verbalize how sorry I am. I’m ashamed of my actions. It’s an ugly feeling, looking back at what I did. I violated your privacy, and I damaged the trust we are building because of some selfish urge to prove I could help you. All I succeeded in doing was hurting you instead, hurting us. This isn’t something I can fix by saying I’m sorry. Just know that it will stay with me forever. That I will think back on this moment and remember how I failed you, and use it to push me to be a better person, a better partner to you,” Bash said.
When he spoke, he was making sure I heard every word and every unspoken promise that came along with it. His vulnerability in front of not only me, but also Charlie was tangible. Without my permission, tears filled my eyes at his genuine response, his remorse audible in the scratchy tone of his voice and through his tensed muscles and permanently furrowed brow.
“So, we all good, then?” I asked, ready to move on and not wanting to spend another moment having my childhood memories be the focus of such scrutiny.
