A shudder passes through my body as I think about the things they've done to me…and the things my mama let them do to me.
I walk into the small adjoining kitchen and watch Mama standing over the toaster with a cigarette precariously dangling from two fingertips. Almost the whole cig is ash, waiting to fall at any second as Mama stares off into the distance as if she's in a trance. She probably has no idea I'm even here, and I can't help but always wonder if that makes it easier for her.
To pretend like I'm not here. To pretend that I don't exist.
Dark smoke rises from the toaster, which Mama found in a neighbor's trashcan a long time ago. It always burns the bread almost to the point of no recognition, but she usually scrapes the charred parts off in the sink before giving it to me. Sometimes I have to do it myself if she's too far gone after having taken her medicine.
The toast suddenly pops up, causing Mama to jolt and snap out of her trance. The long ash from her cigarette falls to the filthy kitchen floor. With a frown, she smashes the butt into a nearby ashtray, and then places the toast on a dirty plate from the sink before handing it to me.
I sit down on a rusted and squeaky metal folding chair in front of a small wooden table. Mama's hands are trembling as she lights up another cigarette, so I figure she must be out of her medicine again. She always gets the shakes when she's out of her medicine.
Mama didn't even bother to scrape off the burnt parts this time, but my empty stomach growls loudly for food. I only manage to sneak food here and there whenever I can get it or when Mama lets me go to school, and I feel like I'm always starving.
Other boys my age are all much bigger than me, and I'm always asked how old I am. I guess I look much younger than eleven because I'm so small.
I manage to swallow down several bites of dry, scorched bread and tell Mama, "Almost time for the bus."
"You're not going to school today, baby," she tells me while running a hand through her greasy, matted, blonde hair.
A sick feeling instantly sours my stomach, and I push the plate away from me. She must really need her medicine bad. And when she gets desperate like that…really, really bad things always happen to me.
"I need you to go next door to Mr. Merton's place and do a couple chores for him, okay, baby?"
I freeze, my blood instantly turning to ice in my veins, and now I'm the one who's shaking. "N-n-n-o, M-Mama. I c-c-can't," I stammer, while tears are already collecting in my eyes.
"You will do as Mama says now," she tells me sternly. "Mama needs money for her medicine. He said he only needs you to do a few things for him this morning, and then he'll give you the money."
I think about the past couple of times I went to the next door neighbor's house. Mr. Merton touched me. And he made me touch him.
He hurt me.
Shaking my head, I get out of my seat. If I can just make it outside and get onto the bus, Mama will have to come up with the money herself. I know some other kids who have fathers and mothers who work. I don't know why Mama can't find a job to afford her medicine.
Mama wraps her thin, bony fingers around my shoulders and shakes me. Hard. "Lucien, I need you to be Mama's little helper today. Okay? Can you do that for your mama?"
I want to tell her no. I want to tell her again about all the evil things Mr. Merton makes me do for the money, but the words just won't come out.
Besides, Mama already knows what happens over there. After the first time it happened, I told her he touched me. But Mama told me it was because I was bad and that I deserved it.
Mama tells me I'm bad all the time even when I try not to be. But even when I'm good, nothing good happens to me.
Maybe I'm always bad and just don't realize it.
She slowly takes off my book bag as I start to cry. "Now, now, don't cry. You'll be back home before you know it. And when I go to get my medicine, I'll buy you a Snickers from the gas station up the road. How does that sound?"
I nod even though I want to scream at her and tell her all the horrible things swirling inside my head. I hate her. I hate my mother. But I can't say the words out loud or even more bad things will probably happen to me.
"Such a good boy. That's why Mama loves you so much."
I cringe at her words. Mama only loves me when bad things are about to happen. I associate love with horrible things now because of her.
She gives me a rough push towards the front door, and I almost stumble. "Go on now. He's waiting for you," she snaps, her voice stern.
I slip on my old, scuffed tennis shoes that are too tight for my feet. And then I run out of the trailer and down the porch steps, stopping at the bottom to upchuck the burnt toast. I dry-heave for a few moments, tears streaming down my face.
I hear the bus pulling up at the end of the trailer court lane, and I numbly watch as all the kids from the neighboring trailers get on it.
Wiping the spit from my mouth on my sleeve, I glance back at our trailer. I want to run and get on the bus…but I can't leave. I just can't. Mama needs her medicine. And if I don't get her the money for her medicine, I'll get punished. And sometimes her punishments are even worse than what happens next door.
