This struck a chord in my mother and, for once, I saw a bit of sympathy cross her face as she looked at her little girl. The thing she had waited so long for. And then back to her evil look of hatred, as she saw me as the second child that came so long after the other, putting her in a hole the moment my father walked out of our lives.
“Please?” she mocked, and then laughed like a hyena. “Please?! Yes, of course that’ll do the trick. That ‘please’ makes everything better. Thanks for being so kind, Cindy! Thanks for the ‘please.’ Let me just go get you some food, then.”
And, at five, I didn’t expect anything bad to happen to me. I felt invincible. I watched my brother as he stared back at me, solemnly chewing his grapes, wondering what was to come. I thought this was it for me. I felt on top of the world that ‘please’ fixed everything.
Before I could turn around to face my mother and see what she was gathering from the kitchen, I felt the blow to the back of my head. I screamed and attempted to cover myself with my little, fragile arms to the best of my ability, but there was no saving myself. I felt another blow to my back and my teeth crunched against the tile of the kitchen floor. I continued crying and screaming and trying to get back up on my feet. But from all the horror movies I had seen at that age, I thought I was being stabbed repeatedly with a kitchen knife at that point. I reached my hands up over my head to protect myself.