Page 173 of Sins of the Hidden

I had this stupid idea back then. If I drew her pictures good enough—really good ones with perfect colors—maybe she'd stay home more. Maybe she wouldn't go upstairs with the men anymore. I practiced until my small hands cramped, certain if I just drew perfectly, she'd choose me. Every shaky brushstroke whispered prayers that maybe, finally, I'd be enough. If I was good enough, if I painted hard enough, she would come back. Every time she left again, I'd think, "I just need to draw better next time."

As I mixed paints to create the colors I needed for my painting, I mixed black and red together, then purple, then brown. The color looked familiar to me. It was the same color as the circles on Mother's arms. Smiling, I took the brush to my skin, which was packed with the color, and made dark circles on my skin.

"What are you doing?" Mrs. Wilson's voice was not like it usually was.

"I look just like Mommy." She looked different, and I didn't know what her face meant.

As I grew older, I realized that even Mrs. Wilson had limits. She knew her husband was raping women who had no options in life. Recalling several people always coming in the house each week with clipboards, they always asked me questions. Not knowing how to answer any of them, except one.

"Does your mother treat you well?"

I always said the same thing. "My mommy is the best."

As soon as they left, it was like a switch flipped on my mother. Jekyll and Hyde almost. As time went on, she drank more, more strange men came over. The safety of my bedroom walls disappeared as the shouting got louder, closer to me. It wasn't long before those walls were smashed down, exposing me to the evil that roamed on earth.

Mother's rage burned hottest when their eyes lingered too long on me. She'd hiss accusations as if my small body was a threat. The more attention they paid me, the more she seemed to hate me.

It was the middle of the night when my door creaked open. A giant shadow entered my room. I remember thinking someone had come to tuck me in, like Mrs. Wilson used to do.

"Hey there, little man," he whispered, his breath smelling strange. "Your mama said I could tuck you in."

I didn't understand why he sat on my bed. I clutched my blanket, confused, not liking this stranger. That confusion didn't last. The man stumbled closer, pulling his pants down.

It became a routine. Night after night, my childhood dreams slowly vanished into pleas.

The next time it happened, I pretended I was somewhere else. The third time, I stopped pretending anything at all.After a while, I stopped counting. The men who visited my room became like the weather—something that just happened, something I couldn't stop. I learned to go away inside my head. To make my body small. To be quiet. This lasted for what felt like forever, even after we moved out of the apartment to the house Prez found me outside of.

That was until one night it was my mother who barged in. Stomping over to my bed, she gripped my hair in her hands, dragging me from my bed. Screaming, I kicked out but was met with a hard kick to the ribs as she cursed at me.

"Shut your dirty fucking mouth."

My chest tightened, strangling sounds escaping my throat, eyes burning with tears. She dragged me all through the house as she clutched onto my hair, her eyes darting wildly, movements twitchy, words tumbling out between hysterical laughter and sobbing gasps, finally taking me down to the basement. Throwing me onto the floor, she looked around wildly.

"Mommy?" She got in my face, spit flying from her mouth.

"I said shut your fucking mouth." The back of her hand connected with my cheek, sending me backward. The sound of my head hitting the floor rang out, warmth spread beneath my skull, thick and slow, soaking into my hair.

"You just can't let me have anything, can you?" Her voice was hollow, given up on everything. "You stole them all. My family, my home, my boyfriends. You stole my whole fucking life!" Her eyes were wide, her body jittery as she loomed over me in the shadows.

"You stole everything," she sobbed, fingers shaking as she threaded the needle. "I've had enough of you and your fucking mouth." She reached into her pocket and pulled something out. Dropping down over me, she put her full weight on my small body.

The next few minutes were a blur. She said more horrible things as she restrained me, her fingers twiddling with something. I noticed the thread was blue. It was a pretty blue. It reminded me of the sky.

My eyes went wide as she brought the needle up to my face. I could hear her breathing—fast little pants like she was excited. I smelled alcohol and something sweet like candy on her breath. The needle caught light from somewhere, a tiny silver flash. Her free fingers pressed my lips together as she jabbed the needle through my bottom lip, followed by my top lip.

"Please," I tried to whisper through clenched teeth, tasting blood. "Mommy, please." But the needle punctured deeper, silencing my begging forever. Maybe this would make her love me again.

Maybe this was what love felt like.

Maybe if I bled enough, she'd see I was worth keeping.

I could only feel the pull—dull, dragging—etched itself into memory. Tears leaked down my face but stayed trapped between my sealed lips, unable to escape, burning with salt where the thread penetrated. Each puncture dragged through my lips, her sweat dripping down my face like rain from hell. She tightened each stitch slowly, deliberately, pulling thread taut through my skin, leaving me gasping, choking, praying for the torture to end. Every stitch dragged slowly, endlessly through flesh. Pain blotted out the world, leaving only her laughter echoing in my skull.

The swirling feeling in my stomach began. I wanted to throw up. I struggled underneath her, but she just applied more pressure. She didn't release me until she had finished what she'd dragged me down here for. She had sealed my lips together with a total of eight stitches.

I opened my mouth to scream, but I couldn't open my mouth anymore. Only muffled whimpers escaped, trapped behindbloody stitches. My lungs seized, heart hammering so violently I thought it would burst.

Mother clapped and laughed, eyes alight as if she'd accomplished something beautiful. "Perfect," she whispered, "finally quiet."

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