Page 17

SEVENTEEN

Hush Now - VIOLA

11 YEARS OLD

If I try to fight Mom, she’ll just hold me down.

I turn and stare at the wall. This corner of the room, right by my closet, is where she always whoops my ass. I guess it’s where she can get the most room for her swing.

“Pants,” she demands.

My face is hot, and my hands are shaking, but I do as she says. What other choice do I have? She wants me to take my pants down so it hurts more.

Peeking a glance back, she has the thick, leather ‘spanker’s stick’ Mom just bought. The one her Jesus people told her to buy. A special brand for bad kids.

My legs feel like jelly, and I want to run. But I can’t stop the fact she’s going to hit me. Right before she does, there’s always a moment of panic despite the fact she’s been doing this for years now.

I hate myself for that moment of panic.

But there’s nothing I can do. I brace myself and close my eyes. The first hit comes with a harsh sting, but it’s not as hard as she hit yesterday. Immediately, relief washes over me. I won’t make a sound this time.

Mom hits me four more times. Five spankings for my attitude. One for each time I said, “ I don’t know, ” with the wrong tone or threw my pencil.

When the hitting is done, I pull my pants back up, glancing at Mom. She hates it when I don’t react, hates when I don’t get mad like her. Says it’s clear I didn’t learn, or she didn’t hit me hard enough.

“What do you say?” Mom demands in her church voice.

“Sorry.” My voice is monotone, but I put just enough inflection in it so she doesn’t hit me again. It’s an art with Mom. Sometimes, she accepts it; sometimes, she hits me more.

“Now.” Mom puts the stick down by my desk. “Let’s try again.”

We do. I still don’t understand the math problem, and it still makes me mad. The more I don’t understand, the more frustrated Mom gets with me. The more I feel stupid. The more I want to cry.

But boys don’t cry.

Finally, Mom throws the pencil down. “Let’s take a break.” She stomps out of the room, and I sit at my desk, my chest tight.

I’m stupid. I know I should get this, but I don’t, and now Mom won’t be proud when she talks to Dad tonight.

A bolt of fear rushes through me. If Mom’s mad when she talks to Dad, he’ll yell at me. I hate when he yells at me. Sometimes, he whoops me, too.

Suddenly, I have an idea. I slip downstairs, trying to be quiet so Mom can’t hear me, then move to the basement. In the basement, I have all my crafts. Down there, I spend my break making a poster board with rainbow markers. The poster says how much I love my mom and how sorry I am. I put a drawing of Jesus on there, so maybe she’ll be willing to forgive me. I cry a little, making it, which makes me even more mad. Why doesn’t she love me?

Because I’m bad. I’m bad, and I can’t stop.

I take the drawing upstairs and give it to Mom. She smiles at me then, kissing me on the top of my head. My chest feels lighter, but that’s followed immediately by a weird heat in my cheeks and the feeling that everyone is glaring at me. I want to run upstairs and grab my stuffed bunny and hide my face in it. But Mom said boys don’t keep stuffed animals. That they’re for ‘faggots’ and she’ll be damned if her son turns into a she boy.

I need to throw it out.

My chest hurts. I didn’t make a sound when Mom hit me, but I still lost. I still lost, and I’m still helpless, just like I’ve been for years.

I just want someone to save me. Someone to make me safe.