Sometimes, it takes so long before you finally decide that you've had enough.

For me? That took nearly twelve years.

It started with what I thought was home. Everybody said I was weird and dirty, that they hated me, and that I didn't deserve to be alive and should just go die somewhere. At least, that's what my mother used to tell me...every single day.

I was a kid and I didn't know better. That's why I loved her.

I loved my mother more than I should, more than she deserved. Her undivided attention was solely set on drowning her wits in alcohol and seducing as many as she could. Sometimes, she could hardly hold the cigarettes between her fingers. Her body drained and head too fuzzy for her to function properly.

She didn't, you know, love me.

My mother has always whined and ranted about how much life was hard because of me and how much she wanted to kick me out. Instead of breastfeeding me, she forced me to drink beer one time. When I got sick, she finally conceded and bought me some milk. Then, for every single day of the time I spent with her, she never let it go, reminding me constantly.

She'd say: "You fucking piece of shit, I can't get enough cigarettes. You need milk, I need to drink!"

Now, I find that funny because it somehow rhymes.

Her multitude of reasons and arguments of why she needed – and had – to get rid of me will forever be engrained in my mind.

1. She claimed that I was too young for her to take care of.

2. The apartment was too small for the two of us.

3. Some guys reprimanded her about having a kid around their heated sessions and that made her lose some clients.

4. Some others tried to grope me instead of her – that made her see red and green. Anger and jealousy led to her raising a hand on me for the first time ever.

Words were one thing. I've gotten used to her vicious mouth and merciless insults. I've learned how to block them out. The physical pain, though, was new. I was merely a child, too frail and ignorant to block fists and knees. I was yet to learn how to.

Luck was a word that tasted weird in my mouth, foreign and far, far away. But, I was lucky because the blows weren't as frequent since she needed her energy for the precious clients. Thus, I was spared...most of the time.

I never had good memories of my mother. I've always had to endure the sight of her naked with so many guys more than I could count because nobody taught me how to. I only compared them to how many fingers I had. The least she's been with in a day was my right hand's fingers and my left hand's pinky.

I taught myself how to do most of the things she was supposed to teach me, like walking, running, and brushing my teeth. Okay, maybe not all by myself. There was this guy who was nice enough to help me stand up a couple of times until I got the hang of it.

He was one of the few that stood up to her, in regards to my health and safety. But then, he stopped coming. The good ones always stopped coming. And I learned that even if they didn't wish you harm, they won't come to save you.

No one was coming to save me.

I didn't get to eat most of the time. One day, after sneaking out, I tried to eat some grass. It looked nice, shiny, and very green. I was salivating, shoving a handful in my mouth. But then, a boy caught me. 

"What are you doing?" He shouted. "Look at her!" He pointed at my huddled form under the tree and all the kids playing with him burst into laughter. 

I didn't know what was so funny. 

Clueless, I kept eating even though it tasted weird, but it helped me tame the grumpy voices in my stomach. At that moment, only those voices mattered. They needed to be silenced. I didn't care about that boy or any of the other children. 

I needed my tummy to stop hurting, to stop being stuck to my spine. I wanted my ribs to stop digging into my skin.

I was a late bloomer, started talking around three, and never had the opportunity to truly practice having a conversation with anyone. So, I wouldn't have been able to reply to his question anyway. 

All I've been hearing was lots and lots of bad words. I knew that because I heard this woman one day at the park when I snuck out of the house again, telling her son not to repeat those words for they were bad language and he might go to hell.

I didn't know what hell was but I wanted my mother to go there so I can watch TV and drink extra milk.

She didn't even notice I was gone. She never did. I was always the last thing on her mind, or never there in the first place.

I would sneak out to the library, as well. There was this girl who'd read for the children there. So, I'd join. I learned how to read from her. She'd pass us some papers to draw on and teach us how to write. The place was full of kids. Yet, I made no friends. I was too scared and didn't know how to socialize. Plus, I wasn't much of a talker anyway and most of them used to pick on me saying I looked funny.

So, I didn't bother with them.

Someday, I saw one of my mother's friends come in and put his lips on the girl's. I froze for a heartbeat before scampering away to hide, worried he'd recognize my face and go snitch on me.

So, I never went back to those workshops. 

After that, I started sitting in this deserted corner to read. No one came here. The kids used to say it was haunted and they feared it. I was thankful. It was my little sanctuary.

The old librarian didn't even notice me coming or leaving for he was dozing off most of the time. And, I was so short he couldn't spot me from his desk.

When my mother started going out at night, I started watching loads of cooking shows and picked up a lot of easy recipes. Never tried to cook, though, afraid I might get caught. It happened once and the punches and kicks made an appearance. She said the money I spent on the food was meant for her breast implants. As if she needed any!

Some of her friends spoke about the same thing. Was it a thing that grown women put plants in their breasts? I never saw anything green in there. 

Grown-ups are so confusing!

The first time I snuck out to go grocery shopping, I managed to get my hands on a couple of bills so I can get the ingredients I wanted.

The old woman at the shop kept watching me and then asked how old I was. I showed her through my fingers. She gasped, probably shocked by my tiny body, and kept repeating: 'Oh my goodness! You're ten? She's ten. Oh, Lord!'

The sight before me brought forth my first genuine smile ever. It was also the first time I spoke in front of a crowd. Not that there were too many, just her and me, but still.

"How old are you?" She blinked fast then grinned wide, her eyes burning with so much warmth it almost burned my frozen soul.

"I'm forty-five, sweetheart."

"You're old." I frowned.

She laughed. "Oh, why, thank you!"

I didn't know why but my legs moved involuntarily and I found myself wrapping my arms around her in a hug, my first hug ever. Perhaps, it was her nice laugh, her warm gaze, or her presence as a whole, so genuine, so lovely, so humane. Her shock faded with a soft sigh as she hugged me tighter before setting me down and offering me a chocolate chip cookie.

I waved at her and walked home nibbling on it. It tasted heavenly.

That day was full of firsts.

The moment I opened the door, clutching the bags with one hand and the cookie in my mouth, I felt a sharp pain across my cheek and the small piece of heaven went flying across the floor. The food was scattered all over the place.

I didn't sneak out again. The beating got worse after that incident. Her clients weren't as numerous anymore and that drove her crazy. So, I became her punching bag.

Then, when there was barely anyone dropping by, I became her free release or per her: "Too much pent-up energy. Glad you're here, bitch."

I didn't know how much I could take it anymore. My mind was shutting down from the violations. I forgot how to read. I forgot how to cook...how to smile.

It was a simple muscle contraction...lips stretching. But, I couldn't do it. I tried pulling my mouth with my fingers till my skin hurt. Yet, I couldn't even force it out.

Then, it started getting better. She still locked up the place so I wouldn't sneak out and, according to her, miss all the fun. But, at least, I wasn't on the receiving end of her sexual frustrations. Clients kept coming and coming and I was beyond relieved. 

Until her eyes landed on me in the middle of her heated session once.

I was slinking to the bathroom, unable to hold it in anymore. A huge mistake because later that night she visited me saying she missed me. I knew better than to fight her off. The bruises throbbed; the scars bled. 

From that day on, she'd visit me at night at random times depending on her mood.

One day, I was napping in the bathtub when frantic hands pulled at my balled-up tiny form. They shook me up and yanked me out. It wasn't her. And for a split second, I thought maybe I'd either gone crazy or was dreaming...until rough hands pressed to my blemished skin.

The guy hauled me to the living room where my mother was flushed against someone, head tilted backward, eyes smug taking in my tremors. 

I couldn't speak. I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe.

My already torn grey dress was ripped off and my hands were yanked from around my body.

My mind went blank after that, numbness blanketing my limp limbs as I lay sprawled on the floor, counting sheep in my head.

When they staggered out of the house, life slowly crept in and I managed to peel my sticky, sweaty body off the cold tiles. Crawling to my clothes, my shaky hands pulled them on to cover my marred skin.

As I watched the mess of scattered limbs of my mother's, empty bottles and creased bills not so far away, my mind was set. There was no hero coming to save me. This wasn't a children's book in the library. There were no knights and no happily ever afters.

This was my life and I've had enough.