“Dirty hands and a dirty face make for a dirty filthy girl. Didn’t I tell you to never play in the mud with that boy? I bet you let him kiss you! Look at your knees, just covered with filth. Little girls that play in the mud like pigs will be treated like pigs,” she slurs.
My mom’s monster eyes look through me. Her face crinkles up and her breath smells like the whiskey more than her skin this time. She’s tasting the devil’s bottle again, already finished it half-way down, even at seven years old; I know what that means . . . I’m in for a beating. Nothin’s gonna to stop her, I look up at the old metal clock in the kitchen above the sink, five o’clock at night; dad will be home in a half hour and if she’s already beaten me he won’t find a reason to punish her for not keeping me in line.
She grabs my arm, grabbing it so tight I feel the pinch of her nails through the ruffle of my sleeve. The devil’s in her again, spit’s flying from her lips as she screams at me. I didn’t mean to ruin my dress, my favorite pink floral dress. She doesn’t care, her hands are so tight, so sharp, as she pulls at the collar of my dress. The same dress I had worn to see my pee stinky grandma in her hospital bed. I wanted grandma to get up, and take me away from my life. But she didn’t, she just brushed her fingertips over the pleat of my dress and smiled. It was the last smile I had gotten from her that meant anything to me. The smile I tucked in my heart, locked away as the only memory of her which held any value.
“You filthy, dirty little shit! Look what you did to your dress. It’s ruined, ruined!” my mom screams tearing me from the memory of my grandma. Her hands bunch to fists over the rounded collar of my dress, and she yanks, ripping my dress apart. The back of my collar digs into my neck, my knees buckle and I fall to the ground. The air brushes across my bare chest and tears splatter across my skin. When I look down, my dress is ripped clear down the front. My favorite dress, the dress I visited my pee smelly grandma in, her smile dress.
“Little girls that act like pigs will be treated like pigs.” My mom takes a wooden spoon from the counter, slams it into the Crock-pot of chili and slops a heap of it into the cat’s dish. “Go on; eat your dinner like the pig you are. Letting boys kiss you, did you let him reach up under your dress too?”
My voice is hiding, my heart hurts—I hate her. My toes ache from being cold, and my dress flaps around me.
“I hate you.” I cry so loud it makes my belly shake and my lungs burn.
“You have no idea what hate is, you conniving little spoiled brat. But don’t worry, when you grow up and you’re forced to marry a man you don’t love and he makes you kiss him, you’ll find out what it feels like to really hate someone. When your father comes home, he’ll see what you did,” she answers, pointing to the front of my dress before she catches the back of my head and throws me down onto my hands and knees. “Now eat your dinner before you get your punishment for bringing dirt into the kitchen.”
She holds my head down into the cat bowl until the tip of my nose is buried so deep I can’t breathe. She makes me stay down on my hands and knees until the chili’s all gone, even the old chunks of cat food at the bottom of the bowl. She swats the spoon across my back before I get up and run to my room.
“You better not come out! Do you hear me Rosalie? If you don’t want a whipping, you keep your whoring little ass in your room . . . Rosalie!”
Sweat pushed across my skin as I tossed and turned in my bed. A sea of raging fear and hate swelled through my body. The vivid memories of my childhood buried deep flooded every recess of my mind and turned my heart causing it to thunder in my chest. Words I hated to hear, memories I kept buried until my mind was weak enough to let them out. I heard my name being called, at the moment between sleep and restlessly becoming conscious.
‘Rose, promise me you’ll get out.’ My eyes flew open and I was frozen in my bed not knowing where I was. Seconds passed, clearing the way for my mind to catch up and I realized I wasn’t seven years old.
“Sybil!” I hollered before I threw back my covers and stumbled out of bed.
I knew she was still in the hospital and I was in our apartment, alone. I looked at the clock next to my bed it was ten in the morning. I can’t believe I slept so long. I checked my phone, fifteen text messages, all from Shane, and one voicemail from the hospital. My head still spinning from the nightmare, my heart dropped into my stomach as it swirled causing me to want to throw-up. I dragged my finger across the message from the hospital and pushed the phone against my ear.