Have you ever been to any sport/hobby clubs? Parents love to send their kids there. But not mine. I always begged them to send me to Art School, Music School, and so on. We had money. Enough money to live well. We are middle class. Not impressive and obviously not the reason to show off. But, damn, they didn’t wanna spend a single penny on their own children. I, 7 years old, begged my mom to send me to basketball. It lasted over 8 months. And finally, they did it. I turned 8 and was so happy like I got a ticket to Disneyland. So a friend of mine and I went to our first training. Her mom escorted us. And, honestly, it was awesome. I still love basketball, and I guess I would still play if I wasn’t 5’2. Are you kidding, God? It’s like the minimum height. No space to get lower. So obviously I wasn’t that appreciated in those whole situations but I was a kid that didn’t care about anyone’s opinion.
We actually wanted to do basketball only because of the fact that we would be able to skip school due to competitions. Spoiler: I’ve never been to a single competition. But don’t worry. I was okay. It’s not the last reason to cut myself.
I don’t want to beat around the bush anymore. So read carefully, maybe you’ll think that it’s not a reason to kill your mom. If you think so, I will cut your throat. Literally. No one has the right to beat a child. You are a grown-up. You are several times bigger than me. You are several times older than me. Shame on you, freak. I’m sorry if you can’t find an equal rival and is willing to beat a kid who can’t even handle her own emotions due to age. But it did not bother you because you are a psycho, fake mother. Damn, I still beat around the bush but I’m trying to make you even more curious. Have no idea if I did because, again, I’m not a writer.
Winter
December 10
Wednesday
I even remember the day of the week. Impressive, isn’t it? I know. I remember every day when my mom beat me in a new way. Special days.
That day I was in my room with my sister, doing homework. The doorbell rings. I’m going to see who is there. Trying to look in a peephole. Mommy. Mommy with a right hand in gypsum. You will find out later how I remembered which hand. I open her door. See her crying and do not know what to do.