My fear stopped me from telling the truth.

My fear stopped me from doing a lot of things.

She apologized to them for wasting their time, yet again. But to me, she really was sorry. She loved me. No one could love me more than she did. Not even Charlie. Besides, what would I do when Charlie went off to college? When he’d start loving college girls more than the pathetic fifteen-year-old high school girl back home whom he’d used for sex.

Like she said, no one could love me more than her.

At least she’d always be around.

She was my mother, after all.

I ended it with Charlie.

He went off to college.

I never heard from him again.

She was right.

But I missed him—his touch—the safety I felt from his love.

So, I found other boys to love. My next Charlie became Alfie, Alfie became David, David became Kevin and Kevin became a bunch of faceless other boys. All secrets. But I’d wear the consequences of the secrets for an hour of feeling safe.

I used them to take me away from the pain of my life.

They used me for sex.

And I loved them all because of it.

Then one day junior year, Ms. Crawford asked me into her office, an office I’d spent a good two hours every week in, sitting in the chair while she spoke to me about my future. Sometimes, she’d ask about my past. I didn’t like those questions. “I see what you’re doing, Becca,” she said. “These boys won’t love you.”

“You’re not my mother,” I snapped, not out of anger but because it was the first thing that came to mind.

Her reaction wasn’t what I expected. I expected her to agree and to back down. Instead, she looked at me, dead in the eye, and said, “Is that what your mother tells you? That the boys won’t love you.”

She’d said won’t.

Not don’t.

And it was then that I realized she’d known all along, and she’d kept all my secrets.

“I see you, Becca.”

I stopped with the boys during senior year. Instead, I took Ms. Crawford’s advice and focused on school. Focused on getting into college, and mostly, focused on getting away from her. Ms. Crawford guided me through it all and soon after, I was no longer staring at my walls dreaming of better days. I was formulating the dreams into a reality.

But still, I kept it a secret.

And stupid, stupid me should’ve known better than to keep secrets from the one person who loved me more than anyone else—who would always love me.

I was pathetic.

So pathetic.

I actually smiled as I showed her the acceptance letter. At first, her eyes narrowed in confusion. She took the letter from my hand and skimmed the words, her eyes quickly darting from side to side. Then I saw it—the same look I’d seen so many times. The rage. “You’re trying to get away from me?” she yelled, her fist already raised. I flinched and cowered away but I wasn’t thinking and I went to the one place I knew not to go. I went to the corner of the kitchen—corners made it harder to escape.

I hated corners.

“Who the fuck do you think you are, you ungrateful bitch!”

The first blow was to my face.

“You think I’ve spent the past seventeen years taking care of you just so you can fuck off and leave me?”

The second blow was to my stomach—so forceful I fell to the floor.

“You can’t fucking leave me, Becca!” she cried. “You’re all I fucking have!”

I don’t know if it was her foot or her fist that hit my left shoulder, over and over. But when I stayed silent, when I forced the tears back and denied her the pleasure of my pain, she got out the heaviest pot she owned and went right back to the same shoulder, dislocating it. Then she did it again, only this time, she missed, and it hit me square in the face, shattering my nose. Blood filled my mouth, from the inside and out. I licked my lips, my sobs heavy now, tasting the blood. So much blood. “Please,” I whispered, “Please stop.”

She didn’t.

Through my tear soaked eyes I saw her lift the pot over her head. I closed my eyes and for the first time ever I wanted to survive this “episode.”

Just to fuck her.

To prove to her that she was wrong—everything she’d ever said to me—every verbal beat down of my self-worth—she was fucking wrong. The pot missed my shoulder again, missed my nose, and went straight to my left eye. Liquid filled it, not tears, but blood—and the only thing I could think was that I was grateful it wasn’t my right eye—my shooting eye.

She didn’t take away my dreams.

Not yet.

My hands covered my face, my legs kicking out—trying to get her to back away. “Please,” I begged. “Enough.”

“Enough?” She shouted, dropping the pot. Her shoulders heaved—and if I weren’t smart—if I hadn’t lived through this my entire life—I’d have thought she was giving up… that she finally calmed down. But I knew—it was the calm right before the storm. “Enough? You don’t tell me what to do, Becca! God. Fucking. Dammit! I’m your mother! You disrespectful little whore!” She opened the kitchen drawer and pulled out the biggest knife she owned.

Everything in me went still.

Everything.

Then I screamed.

So fucking loud.

“Help!”

Blood spurted from my mouth, my nose, my eye. All I could see was red. I tried to stand. “Somebody help! PLEASE!”