The first time it happened was also the last time she hit me. She didn’t even have a good reason.

  We’d just moved, again. Mom tried to make it out to be an adventure. Again. Really, we’d been evicted and stuck in some nasty hole of a hotel for the last couple weeks while she scrounged enough money together for a deposit. Again.

  Sure, I’d expected a smack or two in the hotel. She was stressed and overworked. But then she had the deposit and found a single-bedroom apartment. My futon was set up in the living room, available when one of her friends didn’t crash on it.

  Usually, she was happy for at least a month in new apartments. We might even go buy some new clothes to celebrate.

  Well, thrift store clothes, but they’d be new to me, and they’d actually fit. But this time, we didn’t celebrate. Not even a trip to Dairy Queen. Maybe it was the apartment.

  They were always hell-holes, but this was a special kind of gross. My hand stuck to the wall,s and God help the poor soul that took their shoes off. Every inch of the carpet was stained, turning it into a disgusting patchwork quilt. Some places crunched under my feet, like walking in beer-soaked sand. The cabinets were older than me, some of the drawers hanging crooked, and the shelves sagged under a single can of chicken noodle soup.

  The linoleum in the bathroom was cracked and peeling, showing speckled concrete below. All of this made the already cramped kitchen into a foreboding cave. We could only coexist there together because we were so skinny.

  My mom tried to make eggs while I put Eggos in the busted toaster, debating if we needed the last tablespoon of margarine to make dinner. Would Mac ‘n’ Cheese work without it?

  We still had some sandwich meat; maybe we could do that instead. But if I chopped up some hot dogs and put them in the Mac, we might be able to stretch that two more nights.

  We’d used every penny on the deposit, and food stamps wouldn’t come for a couple of weeks.

  So there I was, contemplating snatching butter packets from the Waffle House down the street, when she started.

  Whack!

  The back of my skull exploded with a familiar pain. No warning, as per usual.

  The ritual was oddly comforting, but she’d caught me off guard.

  “Ouch!” I turned, rubbing the back of my head. “What’d I do?”

  It’s so weird being beaten by someone who looks like you. Brown eyes just like mine stared back at me, squinting in anger. The same frizzy red hair sprouted from her skull like it had caught fire with her mood. She glared down the same upturn of her nose.

  All my features, stretched with age and molted by rage, turned blotchy and red.

  Maybe the beatings would be easier if I looked like my dad. Then again, she might just hit me more. I'd certainly like to smack that weasel around.

  “Where does this belong?” My mother shoved a wooden spoon in my face, still glowering.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “Ummm...” I backed up, letting my eyes focus and unblur the offending object. “In the drawer?”

  Whack! Pain exploded over my cheek. I tasted blood from a bite in my lip.

  “Don’t get smart with me.” She raised her arm, ready to bring it down again.

  “Ow!” I rubbed my cheek and hated myself for showing any weakness. I always promised that next time I wouldn’t flinch. I always failed.

  My reactions only fueled her. If I could only shut my emotions off, she would have stopped. No wood for the fire.

  “Ow!” She sneered at me, her tone like a big bully in the playground.

  My mother wasn’t particularly tall, but she’d started the beatings when I was little. Muscle memory made me cower in a tight little ball.

  My Eggo was burning in our crappy toaster, acrid smoke clogging my flaring nostrils as I backed away. The sharp corner of the counter struck my spine, pinning me between the counter and a tiny window.

  The window was too small to escape through. Plus, it led to an alley where people found their vices, my mother’s services included. Even if someone saw this, they wouldn’t help.

  Nobody ever asked about the bruises, not even when we were moving in. Nobody cared.

  My mother ran at me, raising the spoon like a warrior charging into a battle. “I should have gotten rid of you!”

  This wasn’t a new statement. Every time I failed as a daughter, she’d wished me gone in some fashion. I kind of agreed with her. “I wish you had!”

  The spoon came down on my shoulder, the momentum coming together in a perfect slice of pain.

  Whack! This one burned the top of my hand, making me shrink even further. Trying to become a smaller target.

  Each blow set my skin on fire. Large welts grew, obscuring every freckle underneath. And the last ones had just healed.

  That should have been my first warning. Beat. Heal. Repeat.

  “Where does this go?” My mother paused to push the spoon in front of my face.

  “I don’t know, so hit me.”

  I’d heard a guy in a movie say that. He made it sound cool. Like he was stronger for taking a beating. Be careful what you wish for.

  My mother’s face deepened in its red. “What did you say, you wretched brat!?”

  I was so stunned I couldn’t respond. I could only gape like a dead fish.

  “What. Did. You. Say.” The spoon came down with each word. Then again. And again. I lost track of where she was hitting.

  Across my arms, over my head, on my shoulders.

  Everything hurt.

  “Put your arms down!” My mother grabbed my wrist.

  “No!” It wasn’t a strong command like her voice. More like a pathetic plea before the barrage began again. My mother yanked my arm to one side, and I couldn’t protect myself with the other.

  I needed two arms to protect myself. I needed a shield.

  I wrenched my arm back, pulling from her grip like it was wet paper.

  For a moment, the kitchen was silent. It was only then that I realized I was crying. Not just from the pain but from the still-burning Eggos, their smoke leaking slowly into the air. It didn't even surprise me our smoke detectors weren’t working. The dark cloud gave my mother a terrible aura as we stared.

  I’d never pulled away. Never even tried. I think we were both stunned by the action more than anything.

  “You little brat!” My mother ran in for another assault. “Put your arms down!”

  “No!” This time, it was a command. I don’t know where it came from. Maybe the same place as the strength. I just knew I could do it. So I pushed.

  She fell backward in a clumsy heap, the spoon clattering from her hand against the cabinet. Her head slammed against the wall after she slid across the floor.

  I stood slowly, and we stared. For the first time, my mother was scared of me. Even as I gawked, horrified, at my own trembling fists.