First Chance Book 5

Raven

“Dinner was great, Jason’s a real charmer, and his cooking skills are off the charts,” I say.

“Raven, stop it,” Abigail snaps. “I know I’m usually your punching bag, and I get it. You need someone to vent your anger on, and I’ve been okay with being that person. But not anymore. I won’t let you treat Jason like crap.

“You knew what you were doing when you said that. You wanted to start a fight, and you picked Jason as your target.

“We’re guests in his home, Raven. He didn’t have to let us stay here. We could be in a hotel right now.”

I interrupt her. “A hotel would have better hospitality than Jason.”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about. You act like the world owes you something.

“I get it, Raven. Your life hasn’t been easy. But nobody owes you anything.

“I don’t have to be nice to you, especially after how you’ve treated me since I graduated. But I do it because I love you. You’re my best friend, you’re family.

“I’ve put up with your crap because of your past. But I’m done. I can’t do it anymore.

“You need to let go of your anger, Raven. You need to move on and find your own happiness.”

“Move on? You think I wouldn’t if I could? You think I enjoy dwelling on all the shit they did to me? Because I don’t.

“I’d love to be happy, Abigail. But it’s not that simple. You’ve got it all—blonde hair, pretty shoes, a great job, a rock star boyfriend. You think you’ve got it all figured out, don’t you?

“Now that you’re on top, us little people aren’t good enough for you anymore, right?”

“Raven, you’re twisting my words. I know it’s not easy to move on, but you need to get help. Pushing away everyone who loves you isn’t healthy.

“If you keep this up, everyone who loves you will leave. I don’t want to leave you, but I can’t stand by and watch you hurt yourself anymore.

“Maybe it’s partly my fault for letting you treat me this way, for not stepping in when you treated others like this.

“I see what it’s doing to you, and I can’t just stand by anymore. I’m here for you, Raven. But you need to make some changes.”

“I can’t do this right now, Abigail. Please leave.”

“Raven...”

“I’m going to bed. I’m done talking about this.”

“I’m here for you, Raven. I just want you to be okay. I love you.”

She leaves.

Of all the people I’ve ever been close to, only Selena and Abigail know the truth. They’ve seen what I’ve been through. They were there for most of it.

Sometimes my mom would tone it down when we had company. Other times, she didn’t care who saw her hitting me.

I wasn’t a kid who cried abuse over a spanking or a timeout. I was a kid who screamed abuse because of the daily beatings with a belt.

Most of the time, I preferred the belt. It didn’t hurt as much as a spatula to the face, and it was nothing compared to the choking.

I’m not saying I was a perfect kid. But I was just a kid, and no kid deserves to be hurt like that.

But the physical abuse wasn’t all. She was verbally abusive too.

She was always putting me down, telling me I was worthless and a burden. She said she should have aborted me so she wouldn’t have to deal with me.

As I got older, I made friends—Selena and Abigail. I always found excuses to get out of the house, to avoid my mother. I begged to stay at their houses.

They didn’t know why, at first. I kept it hidden.

She never left marks where people could see them, and if she did, I wouldn’t go to school until they healed.

But then I’d get punished for that too, because my body wasn’t healing fast enough and she couldn’t afford to feed me.

My dad was always working, so he wasn’t around most of the time she was hurting me. But that’s no excuse.

I know he saw the marks. I know he must have heard something. But he chose to ignore it, all because he loved her.

I’m glad they never had another kid. I couldn’t bear the thought of someone else going through what I did. I couldn’t protect myself, let alone someone else.

I remember the first time my mom hit me in front of Selena and Abby.

It was Christmas Eve, and I was ten. We didn’t really celebrate Christmas at my house. We had a fake tree and wrapped cardboard boxes to make it look like we did. But we didn’t.

My mom even kept the same boxes every year. I never got a gift.

But that year, my tenth year of life, my tenth year of living with parents who didn’t care about me, who saw me as a burden.

That year, I got my first Christmas present.

I’m feeling a bit awkward. I’ve never unwrapped a gift before.

Do I just rip the paper off, or do I carefully find the taped seams and peel them away, preserving the paper for future use?

We’re sitting in the living room, side by side on my mom’s threadbare couch. She’s perched on a recliner that’s seen better days.

I didn’t get Abby or Selena a gift. I feel awful about it. They assure me it’s okay. I make a silent promise to myself that I’ll make it up to them someday.

I’m on the verge of tears when Abby places the first box on my lap. They can’t possibly understand what this means to me.

My mom watches with a cold stare. I can tell she’s seething, and I know I’ll likely get a beating for accepting these gifts once they leave. But what ten-year-old doesn’t want a Christmas?

All my friends and their families celebrate, they even celebrate birthdays, something we never do. How could I have told them I didn’t want their gifts? They’re my friends.

In that moment, I decide I’m willing to take a beating, just to experience the sensation of unwrapping these gifts. Just to feel the crumpled paper beneath my fingers.

I reach for the left flap of the wrapping paper, my fingers trembling, and slowly tear a large piece off. I let the discarded paper fall to the floor. I’ll clean it up later.

Piece by piece, I let the torn slips of wrapping paper fall to the floor, until all that’s left is a long white box on my lap.

“What is it?” I ask aloud.

“Open the box, Rave,” Abby says, using the nickname she’s given me.

She helps me find the seam where the lid and the bottom of the box meet. I slowly open it to reveal the most beautiful sweater I’ve ever seen.

I pull it out of the box, setting the box on the floor in front of me. The sweater is white and incredibly soft, like what I imagine cashmere would feel like.

I can’t believe they would have their parents buy me something so expensive. But regardless of its price, it’s special, and no price tag could ever match the value I’ve already placed on it.

“Okay, time to open my gift,” Selena says.

I leave the sweater in my lap as she hands me her box. It’s a bit smaller than Abby’s gift, but it doesn’t matter what’s inside. I open it the same way, slowly, piece by piece. It’s a box too.

I lift the lid, part the tissue paper, and find a hat and gloves, made of the same material as the sweater Abby gave me. They’re the same deep black color, with the same softness.

I take them out of the box and put them on, standing up to give Abby and Selena a hug in thanks.

I wish I could have earned some money, or that my mom would’ve let me buy them a gift. I didn’t ask because I knew she would say no.

As I pull Selena into a hug, my mom gives me a warning look that I’m in for it as soon as they leave.

All because I accepted the gifts.

But they don’t leave right away as she had hoped, which sends her into a rage. It takes all of fifteen minutes for her to summon me into the kitchen, away from their eyes.

I go reluctantly, hoping they’ll leave while I’m in there with her, so they won’t have to hear the names she calls me as she hits me.

But they don’t.

My foot touches the cold tile in the kitchen at the same time my mother yanks me by the arm, using the momentum to slam me into the stove.

She pulls open the drawer next to the stove as I brace myself for what’s to come.

Brown and splintered, a wooden spoon that’s seen better days, that’s seen many days against my skin. She wields it as a weapon, never as a kitchen utensil.

Each smack against my back leaves stinging welts in its wake, she’s careful to never hit the same spot twice. She wants me hurting everywhere, feeling her anger on my entire body.

A reminder that I’ve upset her, yet again.

I bite my tongue, keeping my lips shut, careful not to scream out. My eyelids squeeze shut, trying to hold back my tears, because nothing makes her angrier than me crying.

I should never cry, according to her rules. Another one of her fucking rules.

As each smack lands on my back, it becomes harder and harder to keep the tears in. I try though, I really do.

I know she’s seen them on my face when she stops hitting me. She only ever gives me a brief reprieve when she sees tears.

When she starts up again, it’s worse, a hundred times worse. The break isn’t long and it ends with my pants being pulled down.

She starts hitting me with the spoon on my backside.

That’s when Abby and Selena walk in. Even now, I wish they hadn’t walked into that kitchen. That they hadn’t come over. I wish I could erase what they saw, never having seen their faces.

I wish they had just left.

They look at me with pity, and at my mother with horror. We all freeze in that small, dingy kitchen.

Me with my pants down, my stomach pressed against the stove, my eyes now open and tears freely falling.

My mother, still as a statue, one hand holding that old wooden spoon in the air, as if she were ready to hurt them too if necessary. Abby and Selena look at her, then at me.

Abby breaks the silence first.

“You’re not going to hurt her again,” she yells at my mom, “we’re telling.” With that, Abby and Selena run out of the kitchen and out of my house.

They come back quickly, with police and their parents.

That night, I’m placed into child protective care.

I’m not there long, though, because Selena’s parents are awarded full custody of me until I turn eighteen. Abby and Selena saved me from her.

Sadly, no one could save me from myself.

I live with Selena and her family until I turn eighteen. I graduate high school and land a full-time job as a receptionist at a local doctor’s office.

I've always been self-reliant, paying my own way through life. It's why I can afford to take a last-minute vacation, thanks to all the unused days I've accumulated.

As I peel back the comforter and sheet on the queen-sized bed in the guest room I've claimed, I mull over Abagail's words.

I know I have issues. More than one, to be honest. The biggest one is my reluctance to talk about my past. I didn't want to then, and I sure as hell don't want to now.

Abagail and Selena only know what they saw that one night. They have no idea about the years leading up to that.

They don't know that my earliest memory is of abuse. They don't know that it was the only constant in my life.

They don't know that I was grateful they spoke up because I never did. Abagail said I needed to move on. I've tried.

If it were possible, I'd do it in a heartbeat. I don't want to cling to the anger that's always threatening to swallow me whole.

I want to live, but every time I try to step out of my comfort zone, I freeze. The anger refuses to leave. It chokes me until it's all I can feel.

Anger at people who live.

Anger at people who have a family that cares.

Anger at people who love.

I'm angry every damn day.

I wake up with it weighing me down, I go to bed with it as my constant companion, hoping that it might pull a disappearing act by morning.

When I consider letting go of it, my thoughts spiral out of control. Who will I be without it?

Without the resentment I hold for my father who turned a blind eye to my mother's actions. Without the hatred I carry for my mother for bringing me into this world.

If she hadn't had me, I wouldn't have to endure this life I've been saddled with, day in and day out.

I don't want to die, that's never crossed my mind. But I can't shake the feeling that my parents cheated me out of a better life.

I could have been so much more, felt so much more, if they hadn't made the choices they did.

And when I finally let go of the anger, where does it go? Will it just vanish and then resurface on a bad day?

What if I decide I'm deserving of love? How will my future lover react to the scars left by my past? Who would accept me, scars and all?

***

"The only truth is music."

-Jack Kerouac~