“You think you can slap your Mom?” she rasped, bringing her hand up in the same motion, about to strike. “No, no, I’m not going to do the same to you.”
She turned around, and started back up the stairs, food in hand and clothes slung over her shoulder. As soon as I started to sob, she turned around on the top step before disappearing. “Your brother has wanted to see you for quite awhile. He said he could use some of his little sister. For awhile now I was telling him how sick that was, but now I think I’m going to send him down for a little one-on-one time with his sister. Next time you’ll think about ‘us’ and not ‘me.’”
That’s what it’s like to walk on eggshells. That’s the story of abuse and the timeline it takes on, increasing in severity until there are no options but to sit there and fucking take it. Abuse makes you afraid of certain words, certain things. Please. Help. Me. Things I would never speak again, because they led to the worst experiences of my life.
That’s why I couldn’t say that very phrase when the new neighbor boy walked up to the basement window and saw me standing on top of old clothes, barely reaching my face to the window. He looked down and motioned to me, a look on his face that asked, “Do you need help?”
Before I had a chance to think, I was already motioning back, “No.”
And in this basement is where I shall remain. Because as far as I’m concerned, that’s what I deserve.