Unfit Mother

She ran me over with her automobile, and I don't know why.

All I tried to do was be a good daughter to her, and yet all she could do was abuse me. But this, this is the ultimate abuse, and I can't report this. Scars are on my body, from her previous attempts to kill me, and bruises discolor my skin from our beforehand fight. How could she do this? How could my father let her? Oh I know how he could let her, because he left 15 months ago, and she blamed me for pushing him away because a stupid ex boyfriend broke my heart.

Truth is she's the one who pushed him away. She didn't get help for her anxiety attacks - nor did she take meds. She took her anger out on me and her husband hated it. When something would go wrong, her friends would try to help her, but then she'd be the master of wit, and turn the entire story around so her friends would be the blame.

When my father left, she began to be more emotional. Money problems surfaced, but somehow she had enough money to buy her Versace, Gucci, and Dior wardrobe but we had no money to eat. She didn't bother to get a job after the separation (as if she had one before) so she relied on my father to give us a weekly allowance. As you can tell there was never enough for anything. She had me lie to the collection agencies when they called about her indebt credit cards, and when I told her I had enough of her crap, she bawled like a newborn baby then let the bitch in her soul take over her mind and she slapped me. Leaving marks on my face. (Thank GOD for MAC makeup, any other brand make up wouldn't have stood a chance against the abrasion)

The last time I saw the man that fathered me, was February 17th; the day known as apocalypse of my self-esteem. The day he told me I wasn't leaving this town, I wouldn't make it through college let alone high school. I'd work at McDonald’s and never leave. The day he also told me I was ruined goods to him! So I knew I couldn’t go to his house when Mommy Dearest and I got into a fight, and she kicked me out. Was the whole scenario of me not having a home, temporary or permanent? Permanent? I doubt it, since my mother is like a dog – all bark no bite. Temporary? Perhaps, but I felt as if she didn’t want to see me ever again.

Somehow I ended up at our local Catholic church. A priest saw me sitting by some palms, with my head down. I was trying to stop the tears from flowing, but he lifted my chin and guided me to stand up. When I faced him, I couldn’t hold it back any longer, I began crying so intensely I doubt he knew what to do. I skimmed the surface of the details of what happened between me and my mother. He got up and asked the police department to send a trooper over here and escort me home. The peace officer came over to the bench where I was, and the priest left us in privacy. I told the cop pretty much everything he needed to know, soon enough he brought me home.

I thought me coming home in a police car would wake my mother up, and make her see that she needs to come out of that expensive life she leads, but did it, OH NO! She’s waiting for me to come home, with my grandmother sitting on the park bench in our porch. When the police officer walked up my mother dried her eyes of fake tears, and began talking to him. With her facial expressions and trying to read her lips, I could tell she pulled the “Heavenly Saint of a Mother” card on him and of course he believed her. He asked me to get out of the squad car, and I did. He laid down the rules in self-explanatory conduct, and then asked us if we have any other words to say to each other and if we did, we have to do it in a calmly manner. My Mother said she was sorry, in a meaningful tone, but I saw right through her. Her eyes screamed “I’m going to kill you when we get inside.” When her lips shouted, “I’m sorry, I love you.” I just didn’t know that what her eyes said wasn’t literal. Before the police officer left he asked, “Is it possible for you two to hug and make up?” My Mother, still playing her ‘Mother Theresa’ Masquerade, said she would forgive and hug, but I objected. I clearly stated asking for a hug from her is too much. Way too much after what she’s done. He sighed and said “Good day.” And left our premises.

We saw him drive away and my mother grabbed me by the ear and dragged me inside. I tried screaming but from crying earlier my voice was parched. My grandmother came inside and sat down in her usual brown rocking chair.

“How could you come home in a squad car?” My mother screamed at me, after she threw me down on the ground. “I thought you were selling drugs, or stealing merchandise when that car pulled up.”

“Mom, you know I don’t do that!” I fought back, but it was no use. She slapped me and told me to shut up. I cradled my face in the palm of my hand while trying to soothe the sting of the slap. “Why do you do this to me!” I shouted. “Why do you put me through so much pain, then play it off like its nothing!” she stayed quiet, then she started her fake, feel-bad-for-me tears. My grandmother tried to scold me but I wouldn’t let her. I was tired of both of their excuses for my upbringing being my father’s fault. Another screaming match erupted in the household. I tried running away again, but each time my mother and I had these fights, she would take away a resource of mine: The phone, the computer, a friend, family I’m close to, you name it, and it was taken away. I ran outside and tried looking around figuring out which way to turn. Finally I came to my senses, I had absolutely nowhere to go. I tried marching back inside, but my mother and grandmother were standing in the doorway readying to go outside.

“Get in the car, we need to take her home.” My mother sternly said. I didn’t refuse. All three of us got in the 2001 cranberry-hue Toyota Corolla and drove away. We dropped my grandmother off and watched her go inside her retirement apartment. “Up here in the front now.” My mother demanded once my grandmother and all other witnesses were out of sight. Again I didn’t demur. I opened my door, opened the front passenger door, and seated myself. She revved up the engine and floored it. We were out of that parking lot in less than 10 seconds. We were going faster than a Ferrari on a freeway, but keep in mind we were on side streets.

We arrived home, but didn’t park. That’s when the crime was committed. She silently turned off the engine, unbuckled my seatbelt, leaned over me and pushed me out of the car. I vaguely remember hitting my head, but I had to have hit it cause how else could I have had an instant pounding headache? Before I could stand up, she accelerated the engine and ran over my legs. There are absolutely no words to describe that pain. She made a sharp U-Turn, and then another one making a complete circle. I stood about ten feet from where she had the car idle. My right leg was numb, and I couldn’t stand up that well, but I put all my weight on my left leg. I looked at my mother with uncertainty and pain in my eyes.

Apparently that pissed her off cause she floored the engine and raced towards me. I couldn’t move fast enough, to get out of her way so she hit me. Head-on collision, the glass cracked as my back hit the windshield. She swerved recklessly like she was driving a bumper car. I fell off hitting the ground once again. This time I knew my kneecap was shattered; I couldn’t extend my leg, and I couldn’t up. I just rolled around on the paved street in agonizing pain. So agonizing I felt myself blacking out that is until I heard the roar of the breaks screeching as the car makes the same circle, running over my ribs in the process. Black smudge was on my fingers, I knew it came from the tire marks that dirtied my body. The car door slammed and I heard her spike heels tap against the pavement. She poked my scarred body her extra long, manicured nails to see if I still alive. I didn’t respond, I couldn’t I literally felt lifeless, but to her I wasn’t dead enough. She walked back to her car with a sense of model behavior. Her keys banged against the key chain as she drew them from her pocket. I knew she didn’t get in because once I heard her warm up the engine once again, she placed a text book on the gas pedal and immediately jumped back from the bullet speeding automobile.

The car sped over my delicate face, cracking my skull and possibly every other bone in my body. I was dead I knew it. You want to know how I knew? I saw my pale white, lifeless body lay in the street inches from the explosion the Corolla caused when it crashed into a tree and erupted in flames. The woman formerly known as my mother, dragged my body from the scene, moved some firewood around and placed my corpse in the wooden box that was hidden in the center of the pile. She washed her hands and soaked the streets leaving no evidence that a murder occurred, and played a persona of a woman who was wondering what was going on with that flaming car. The flames had been put out, and a case had been opened, but not about me. A case had been opened on cause of action. How did that car explode into flames? How is it possible no one was in there if the car exploded on impact? All questions about the mysterious car and none about me.

As for me, I’m just in a neutral state. My body well lets just say, the newly childless woman wheel burrowed the several pieces of wood and placed it by the oak tree that would be cut down that morning. Yes, that’s right – the wood chipper and city workers came, began starting up the wood chipper, and began chopping the branches away. Branch by branch went into the shredder and came out on the other side as pencil shavings. The operator of the wood chipper then picked up the old wheel burrow and dumped the pile of wood onto the conveyer belt and watched as the disguised coffin went into the wood chipper. Shred by shred, splinter by splinter, pulp, guts, and chunks shot out and into the back bed of the truck. Nobody would know that I was murdered by my mother!