Part 1

A few days before his birthday, she walks in his room with the face of a demon as her nimble fingers lock the door.

He sits up, brows scrunching in confusion and heart racing when she takes a seat at the foot of his bed.

“We need to talk,” falls from her pursed lips.

He looks at her, hesitating before asking, “about what?”

She doesn’t say for the longest of times and he fidgets where he sits.  When she finally does, she looks at him with scorn.  As if she knows something he doesn’t.

“What team are you on?” She asks.

His confusion only grows, “what?”

“Are you on their side,” is said with such disgust, “or our side?”

He looks lost, but inside he’s panicking.

He knows what she’s referring to.

And when he looks at her he knows he can’t deny anything, “Honestly, I don’t care about ‘teams’.”

Her glare turns tenfold, eyes narrowing at him, “What does that mean?”

“I’m not thinking about relationships,” he answers with a small shrug.

“Then what is this?” she begins, reaching for something behind him, “I know I didn’t get a proper education ,but I’m not stupid.”

She holds out his binder in front of him and his heart gets lodged in his throat.  He doesn’t speak.

“You think you can hide this?  Think I don’t know that you use this to constrain your boobs?  Flatten them until you looks like something you’re not?”

He cringes internally and tears well up in his eyes.

“You think I don’t know who I gave birth to?  You think I don’t know that I gave birth to three boys and one girl ?  Because when the doctor gave you to me she said very clearly that you were a girl!  Just because I didn’t want to know your gender beforehand doesn’t mean you’re not a girl !”

He flinches, the first tears of many rolling down his cheeks.

She has the audacity to shed tears as she spews hate toward him, “Don’t you know that I hate those people?  How could you do this to me!”

He’s frozen, heart clenching inside his chest.

“I can never, I will never , accept this.  You have no idea how disappointed I am, how much you’ve hurt me, the shame of seeing you,” she cries.

“I didn’t mean to,” he finally whispers hoarsely, “it’s just how I feel.”

And then there’s determination set in her face, “you’ll change.  I realize it’s my fault-”

He shakes his head, his voice lost and unwilling to correct her.

“You’ll throw out all those ridiculous clothes,” she sniffles, “throw it all away.  And I swear I will change you.”

She makes him take out all his clothes to throw them out.  He dries his eyes and does as told, setting his jaw.  He’ll take the brunt of it.

And he thinks that’s that until she makes him go to the kitchen to eat.  Forcing him to cook like a woman should.  He makes something simple with his head hung low.

And it angers her, how dull and lifeless he’s become.

“You’re going to change,” she repeats more forcibly, “I’ll help you change .”

“Okay,” he mumbles.

“You think you can act like one of those-those-”

He tunes her out, only answering with monosyllabic words.  She gets even more angry, her hand wrapping around the metal pole of a broom.

“You think you can talk back to me?  Still act like one of those ?!”

The broom is dangerously close but he’s stupid and answers anyway.  

Yes .

He’s tired, so damned tired.

The first hit doesn’t hurt as much, but she doesn’t stop there.  She beats him until the metal bar of the broom bends on his back and the bristles break off.  Until they’re in his room, having run away from the assaults as she screamed at him to get out.

He reaches for his clothes, desperate to leave, but another hit and more screaming stops him.

“How could you do this to me?!” She cries, falling to her knees before him, “ How?   Don’t you know you’re on the wrong path?  That you’re hurting me?  Why couldn’t you have waited until I were dead?  I swear you’re killing me, this will be my end!“

“You’re the one who was so desperate to know,” he whispers, face flushed and tears running down his face, “you’re the one who dug through my things, who wanted to know.  I didn’t tell you for a reason, but you insisted!”

She looks at him with red-rimmed eyes, “For a man, a woman would do anything, but for my child I would die .  I don’t want to chantajear te (blackmail you), but if you walk out that door, I swear I’ll die.  I’ll die at my own hand.”

He helps her up, sits her in his bed as he buries his face in his hands.

“Please,” she begs, “please change, let me help you.”

This isn’t help, he thinks bitterly, you want your happiness while you destroy me inside.  This is what you call being a mother?  This is what you call love for me?  Your hate in your eyes as you hit me?  That is love?  What’s “best” for me?

All those thoughts run through his head, but he only manages a weak, “okay.”

He knew this would happen.  Deep down he always knew he’d have her hatred.

But as she apologizes for hitting him, blinded by her rage, as she soothes him with her hands, he feels nothing but repulsion for her.  For the mother he once loved.

Her touch foreign and unwanted.

He wants to throw up, to gag.

He wants to die.

Inside, he wants to die .